#because he needed someone or something to latch onto

[siri-ike]

By hooking each bat up to a neural monitor during some of these interactions, the bats were able to learn some of the potential causes for their reactions.

Most people experienced dramatically hightened levels of dopamine and slight decrease in serotonin. The dopamine made people feel intensely about him, and the lack of serotonin gave people a negative experience.

This prompted two hypotheses. If someone already has low dopamine, will they still have a reaction? and if someone has high serotonin, will the reaction be better?

The first would be easy to test. Just have Nightwing stop taking his Ritalin for a while and have them meet.

Result: it wasn't great. Dick was all over the place, and it was hard to tell whether he was put off or not.

Conclusion: Dick has been relying on Ritalin since he was 6 years old, and therefore cannot be expected to function without it.

The second test was more difficult. No one in this family has an abundance of serotonin. So, instead, they went the other way. Find someone who's used to having low serotonin.

Luckily for them, they had the perfect teammate for the job.

Garfield Logan, aka Beast Boy. His undiagnosed depression and ADHD make him the perfect candidate.

On a related note, Damian refused to get tested for either.

The whole plan had raised concerns. Such as "How do you know he has "undiagnosed" depression and ADHD?" And "Batman, try not to send 9 year olds into potentially dangerous situations challenge" and of course Tim's favorite: "What do you mean his parents agreed to this for a small fee? Do we need to call CPS?" But none of those concerns mattered as much as getting answers.

*kzzt* "Red Robin calling Beast Boy, come in Beast Boy."

"Beast Boy responding, target is in sight." Gar said mere inches from the boy staring right at him. "I could almost touch him." He places a hand directly on his face. "I am now touching him."

"Gar, we talked about this." Nightwing butted in. "Don't just touch peoples faces. You don't know if they could bite."

Gar, without removing his hand, asked. "Do you bite?"

The boy didn't answer, he more just blubbered. It was gross. Gar pulled his hand away, and a solid web of bright green snot clung to them both. "That doesn't look like a healthy color." Gar held the goo up to his own face to compare. "Nothing should look like this." He couldn't keep in his laughter as he said that. It was enough to put a smile on the older boys face.

"Who are you?" He finally rasped.

"I'm Gar. It's short for Garfield. I'm one of the Teen Titans." Gar proclaimed proudly.

"You're a teenager?"

Shoot, he saw right through his clever ruse. "Well, no. I, I'm not a Teen Titan yet. I just live at the tower for now because my family is being investigated, and my mom thinks I can't keep a secret." Gar wiped the discusting slime all over his bright purple suit. "She thinks I'm going to tell everyone that my dad isn't allowed near any minors"

"Oh." The boy looked concerned in a much too knowing way for Dicks liking. "I'm Danny." Said Danny.

*kzzt* "Take him to the shelter."

"There's a safe house nearby. It has food and everything. You can live there now because Batman and Red Robin wanna fix your spooky pheromones or something." Gar beamed as though delivering the best of news.

"Ok." Danny hesitated but decided to follow. Sneakily, he latched onto Gars' hand, who only smiled in return. It had been months since anyone let him touch them.

The test was a success. Now, they had two people who could interact with the teen. One of whom didn't trigger Batmans fight or flight. This way, they can keep tabs on him 24/7.

Dick sent Zatana their data just incase Tim's "vibes proof barrier producing belt" or Vpbpb (pronounced as a fart noise) didn't work.

Ever since the portal accident, Danny has always seemed a bit… off, to other people. But even before that, he’d always been seen as a bit of a weird kid. The people of Amity Park were, even at the start, a bit used to it.

The people of Gotham, however, were not.

If anything, they were the opposite. Living in the ‘city of crime’ had built within them keen survival instincts. Instincts that went on full blast in the halfa’s vicinity.

Most simply avoided him. Homeless shelters turned him away. Jobs, even the less than legal ones, hesitated to hire him. Sometimes people would even call the cops if he stuck around in any one place for too long.

Not even the city’s mysterious vigilantes trusted him. He sometimes caught glimpses of their masked eyes following him from the shadows. Watching. Waiting for him to show his true colors.

Or maybe he was just hallucinating. He couldn’t be entirely sure. He didn’t dare transform and risk bringing down further suspicion on himself, nor could he ask anyone to corroborate for what he saw either. So instead, he just curled further in on himself. Surreptitiously using his powers to steal the bare necessities for himself and avoiding everyone.

Not even during the worst of the anti-ghost sentiment in Amity had Danny felt so alone.

[blood-smiles]

Hello! I love your blog and I wanted to ask you something, if you don't mind.

I really like Yandere!nurse and I would like to know how he would react if his beloved was a geisha.

Have a good day! ( ≧ᗜ≦)

HEY!! Thank you so much for your ask!! I get jolly every time I get an ask!! 💓💓

Although, I am not Japanese!! im definitely not someone of Asian descent so if I get something wrong please correct me, but from what I gathered Geishas are traditional entertainers/artists with many talents.. so I’ll try to do my best to make up something respectful but true to your ask!!

I would definitely say he would be VERY jealous, he doesn’t want you having any contact with anyone.

If you have a particularly interesting conversation with a guest he is absolutely peeking through a doorway and giving the dirtiest look ever. Like those that make you think you smell like shit and look like it too.

let’s say you play a game of konpira fune fune and you giggle or something while singing, your dear Yuuto is SEETHING behind the scenes, seconds away from poisoning the guest’s tea.

Will follow you EVERYWHERE, force the guest to say he’s an acquaintance to just be in your presence.

Will praise you to the moon and back, mans wants you so bad it’s actually clinically crazy.

When you finish your work for the day he is immediately at your feet, literally.

he kisses the red tint off your lips, uncaring if it smears on his own and stains his own. The white powder makeup of your face leaving bone white imprints on his skin.

All over you.

Do your feet hurt? He took a sports medicine course in highschool! He can massage your feet if you want!

What about your shoulders? Do they feel sore? He is also well versed in the art of massaging! He will gently push the knot out of your muscles if you want!

How do you feel? Do you need affection? Cuddles? Kisses? Something even more intimate? Whatever you want, sweetheart!!

Will latch onto you in the mornings when you’re off to work, will press his chest against your back while whining about how he feels needy. LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!!!

Makes you your lunch like a good housewife, wraps it in cute cloth and makes you octopus shaped sausages, adds a little note and all.

then the cycle repeats until you get a well deserved break!

Vacation is probably a thousand times more stifling with him, eat up and rest! I wish you all the luck possible— Because trust me hon, you will need it.

[kindaorangey]

also in the same way you have to see armand choosing the coven over louis as him deciding between two options he sees as bad, believing one is not viable, and committing to the other wholeheartedly (hence him directing the trial and just generally playing an active role in madeleine claudia and louis's executions) so too must you view his decision to stay with louis after the trial as him realising the coven is not a viable option for him anymore (because louis kills them all) and committing to louis wholeheartedly instead because he's his only other option.

[aerifim]

imagine having a secret relationship with iwaizumi as the karasuno manager. like, the amount of thrill and excitement that would run through your veins the moment you lock eyes with him during a match is uncanny. the way his sharp gaze would linger for just a second too long before he snaps his attention back to the game—it's enough to send your heart racing.

the desperation of wanting to be near each other—knowing that the other is just right there—and resisting the urge to walk over to your boyfriend is a different level of risk. there's a magnetic pull between you, one that you both have to fight against to keep your relationship under wraps. 

though, despite the odds of being on opposing sides—and having to deal with the rivalry between your team and his—iwaizumi manages to find subtle ways to communicate with you between matches. a slight tug at his jersey means i miss you, a quick tap on his water bottle signals to meet you later, and a slight smirk across the court drives you absolutely nuts.

he even tries to sneak little notes into your bag, ones that say things like “you looked cute today. try not to stress too much over the crows.” 

but the struggle of not getting caught is real. kageyama and hinata always seem suspicious—especially since they seem to have a sixth sense when something feels “off”—but luckily they're too dense to put the pieces together.

but oikawa? he's a completely different story. he knows something is up. every time karasuno and aoba johsai are in the same vicinity, he teases iwaizumi mercilessly. 

“iwa-chan, you keep looking at karasuno’s manager. don't tell me you’ve got a crush.” he coos, only to get smacked upside the head.

there are so many close calls that almost revealed your relationship to the whole team. like the time you accidentally just called him “hajime” in front of your team, making tanaka and nishinoya immediately latch onto it. or when you and iwaizumi almost left a convenience store together after practice—laughing, completely forgetting that your teams were also inside. 

but then, it finally slips. the two of you got caught making out with each other in the storage room after a long, intense, and competitive practice match against aoba johsai. neither of you saw the door swing open in time and the two most noisiest team members had caught you two in the act. 

to say that tanaka and nishinoya were shocked to see the sight of you and an aoba johsai teammate making out in the storage room would be an understatement. and soon enough, everyone else knew. 

it started small. once sugawara and daichi caught wind of it, they immediately sat you down and spoke to you about it. 

with the rest of the team. 

luckily, it wasn't that big of a deal on your end—if you ignore tanaka and noya’s dramatic commentary. but for iwaizumi? he had to deal with oikawa being a drama queen. 

but, after all the teasing, the fake outrage, and oikawa dramatically claiming he needed “emotional recovery time” (which was just an excuse to bother iwaizumi more), both teams accepted it. 

that didn't mean they'd stop messing with you two, though. 

any time karasuno and aoba johsai were in the same gym, oikawa would send exaggerated kisses in your direction for the sole purpose of pissing iwaizumi off. nishinoya and tanaka started calling him “brother-in-law” to see how long it would take to get him to snap. 

sugawara even joined in on it, casually mentioning things like, “wow, iwaizumi-san, you're so polite for someone who made out in our storage room.” 

and, despite all the teasing, the sneaky comments, and the endless smirks from both teams, you and iwaizumi wouldn’t change a thing.

because at the end of the day, it was worth it.

♡ happy valentines day! this is for @reiyaus :3 & for the 3 people alive in the haikyuu fandom rn.

[nochepsicodelica]

Even more bear boyfriend Toji thoughts, because when is he not on the mind?

Naps, naps, naps, and more naps. He drags you into naps with him all the time. If he's going to nap, you best believe you're taking a nap too. He uses very little of his strength when it comes to holding you because he doesn't want to crush you or make you uncomfortable, but sometimes you try and fight your way out of his arms because you don't want to take a nap. You're not tired, but he is, and it's truly not his fault he grew accustomed to holding you whenever he's sleeping. It's become a habit now and he can't sleep at all without you around. Moments when you don't want to nap are when he does have to hold onto you a little tighter so that you tire yourself out as you try to free yourself from his arms. Eventually, you surrender and stop wasting your efforts on something impossible, and Toji lets out a satisfied sigh, before burying his face into the crook of your neck. You fall asleep at three in the afternoon and don't wake up until eight at night sometimes because when you start to stir awake, he hums and coos at you in his sleepy voice. It's always 'Not yet, mama. Still tired...' and 'Stop moving, pretty...' or 'aw, looks like you still need sleep, baby. I'll sleep with you, don't worry...' Supposed naps turn into hours of sleep with him :(

Will pull on your clothes for many reasons. You're on the phone, leaning against the kitchen counter and he's tugging on the back of your shirt to get you to turn around and look at him. You nod at him in question and he just grins before latching onto you from behind, burying his face into your back. If you're adventuring together, walking around and you start to wander off without him, he tugs on the hood of your sweater and brings you back to where he is, making you walk those same steps all over again, this time with him. Sometimes he'll pull down the neckline of your shirt to look at your boobs just because he's a total perv like that.

Size kink who? Size kink Toji. Loves knowing he's bigger and physically stronger than you. He loves when you shove him during a fit of anger, because he's grounded—he doesn't move at all and it pisses you off even more. When you refuse to talk to him after an argument that's gone on for too long (an hour </3) he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder. You can kick and yell for him to put you down all you want, but he won't put you down until the argument is resolved. He can't have you trying to run off every time you're in a room together. He cages you in with his arms sometimes, when he wants to be all you can see, hear, smell and feel. You should be just as obsessed with him as he is with you. He uses this proximity to steal as many kisses from you as he wants, really taking the opportunity to showcase how small you are compared to him when you can't move from the position he has you in.

He's a total bear even when it comes to his bouts of jealousy. Someone stares at you for more than three seconds and he's quick to block their view of you. He stands beside you, covering you so that the stranger gets a view of his back, instead. If you're standing in line at a restaurant or coffee shop, waiting to order something and someone keeps chatting you up after you've continuously let the conversation die, he steps in. Especially, if he notices that their eyes wander away from yours, to your lips or your chest, wherever. He's not loud about it verbally, but the way he'll just pull you back a few steps into him so he can wrap himself around you screams possession. You laugh off the gesture and finish off your response to the stranger. They don't try to talk to you anymore afterwards because the way Toji stared daggers at them was scary.

Toji constantly reminds you that you're more than enough for him. When you cook for him, when you spoil him in return with things you think he may like. He always loves them because you bought them for him. There are moments when he turns from this ferocious, obsessive, enormous bear, to the smallest, most adorable cub. He's a little more quiet, but his eyes are just as expressive. He stays in one spot for a while even if you're not there. He doesn't go looking for you, he can hear you whistling as you wash dishes, but it's not like he doesn't want you around. He just thinks sometimes. Thinks about how good things are with you—thinks about what he has and he feels like he could be crushed by it all. These are the moments where you step in and make him feel extra loved. You tell him that he's good to you and that he makes you feel safe. You tell him that you love him more than you've ever loved anyone. Up until one of those moments, there was always the dilemma of whether he was a sunrise or a sunset. You finally made your decision. "You're my sunset, baby." You always know just what to say to bring him back. Toji laughed because it made absolutely no sense, but you loved on him after saying it, like it was something real— like it's normal to categorize someone as a sunrise or sunset. Regardless of how dumb it sounds out loud, if he's your sunset, you're his sunrise.

(NSFW Below)

His hands are enormous. His fingers are long and thick and he loves being able to hold you down with just one of his hands while he works his fingers in and out of you. While you squirm and whimper in his lap, embarrassed at the mess you're making on his pants, he simply coos at you, finding the whole thing endearing. You can't control the mess you're making on him. He can, and he doesn't want it to stop. Sometimes, during moments like this where you're all teary eyed in his arms, your body trembling and trying to shrink against him as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from you, he wants to hold you so tightly in his arms that you genuinely struggle to breathe or maybe crack a rib. The kisses he presses into the side of your face actually sting at some point because of the way he's so harsh and he's nipping at your skin. He wants to bite your shoulder so hard that he draws blood, he wants to pinch your tummy until his fingers leave marks on it. His bouts of cuteness aggression are no joke.

Loves when you try to take control, always so confident that you can do it, that you can ride him until you both cum. He's not gonna say anything, but he knows how you are, so he just lets it happen. His hands are on your hips, your hands on his chest as you bounce on his dick for as long as you can. You can feel yourself growing tired. Your chest is heaving and your thighs burn from the exertion. Your moans are released into the air through heavy breaths, your eyes twinkling as you realize you're right there. "C-Can't, I can't... so tired..." and Toji just looks up at you with the most lovestruck expression, a tint of pink dusted on his cheeks. You're adorable. "That's okay, mama. Let me." And he lays you onto your back, before finishing you off and finishing himself off. He cradles you afterward like you're something temporary that he doesn't want to let go of and you both end up falling asleep.

Sighhh Toji is a total bear boyfriend </3

[ghostedbunnie]

trouble comes in fours; simon's ver

you are trying to scare off your ex and who better to send him running than a masked burly guy you've met at a bar and who bulldozed his way into your bed.

simon riley x fem!reader nsfw, minors do not interact!! warnings: dub-con (drinking), fingering (fem!receiving), car sex, exhibitionism, oral (fem!receiving), doggy style, creampie, manhandling

prologue // other versions (TBA)

Everything that happened after Johnny invited you over (which really meant he pulled you by the hand before you could back out) was a blur. You found yourself sandwiched between the masked guy and the pretty boy who introduced himself as Johnny, speaking with a sexy, thick Scottish accent. You couldn't help but steal glances at the masked guy. He said nothing, merely dipped his chin in greeting and met your gaze with an unnerving stare.

From this close-up, you noticed parts of his blonde buzzcut where he had nicked himself with the razor. He had done it himself without a mirror, resulting in some slightly uneven spots. On someone else, this might make them appear unkempt, but for this giant of a man, it seemed just right—almost endearing.

Everything about him screams danger. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you're already sweating because he and Johnny feel like walking furnaces. When you try to pull off your hoodie, the alcohol courses through you, and your head spins. As you finally manage to take the garment off, you accidentally grab onto something solid and hard for support. Too late, you realize that your hand has latched onto the blond's muscular thigh. You immediately let go, as if you’ve been burned by the touch.

You almost swear you hear him snort under his mask. When he finally speaks, your thighs clench. “I think it’s time for you to head home, doll. Come.”

It sounds as if he is talking to a dog, and you feel a sense of indignation rising within you. "I'm not a dog to give orders to. Besides, I don't even know your name."

He rolls his eyes at you. "Simon. That better now?"

"Not really. How do I know you're not some serial killer?" That gets some laughs out of the rest of the table.

He leans down closer to your ear, and you can almost sense the smirk in his voice when he says, "You don't. It adds to the thrill." It could be the alcohol coursing through your veins or the way his voice, with its rough British accent, sends shivers down your spine, but you find yourself agreeing. In some twisted way, it does add to it.

You discover that Simon doesn’t actually drink; the beverage you saw in front of him was just plain water. When he drives you home, he looks absolutely ridiculous in your small car, taking up all the space. He grumbles about your seat being so close to the steering wheel. When you ask him how the other guys are getting home, he simply replies, “They’ll walk,” along with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

He doesn't touch the radio, and you're too nervous to reach for it. You soon realize that he's not much of a conversationalist. He only answers your questions but never offers any additional information that would prompt you to ask more. After you've exhausted all possible conversation starters, all you can do is sit and look out the window. You swear you see him chuckle at your fidgeting whenever the silence becomes oppressive. As you finally arrive home, you can hardly wait to bolt out of the car. The tension is so thick that you need some fresh air to breathe properly, trying to push away thoughts of the consequences of your actions.

Before you can act on those thoughts, a heavy hand grips the back of your neck. "You think too loud. Stop it." A retort dies in your throat as you're pulled into him so quickly that your head spins. You barely register him removing his mask; you can’t even enjoy the fact that his face is finally visible. He latches onto you with the hunger of a man starved, kissing you deeply and urging you to stick out your tongue more.

Just by kissing him, you can feel the scar running through his lips. There's another scar, one that you noticed before, that runs through his eyebrow. When he finally pulls away for a moment, you see that his nose was definitely broken at some point, and he never bothered to get it fixed. You can't help but wonder what it would feel like to sit on his face.

Unceremoniously, he pulls you over the center console and onto his lap, which causes you to squeal in surprise. He doesn’t even bat an eye as he manhandles you into position, making you think about how your ex couldn't even carry two bags of groceries without complaining about the weight.

Something must have revealed your train of thought, or perhaps it was simply the fact that you were still lost in your thoughts, because Simon growls in response. You can feel the sound reverberating through your hands, which rest on his impressive pecs.

"Stop. Thinking." Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips. To his great amusement, your mind goes blank immediately.

He guides your hands to his zipper straining under his hard-on. "What if someone sees?"

He only replies with "They'll get a hell of a show then." before he drags the pads of his fingers over the wet patch on your panties underneath your skirt that has already ridden up to your hips. He pulls the crotch of your panties to the side and pushes up to a knuckle, wasting no time and making you cling to him for dear life. After he adds another and starts hitting all the spots that make you whimper into his thick neck, he chuckles. It sounds a little mean but it still shoots right to your pussy anyway. "Finally shut that brain of yours up, doll."

He pulls up your shirt with his free hand and drags the cups of your bra up as well before sucking a nipple into his mouth. In reaction you push further into him, making him hum. He ends up alternating between bites to the side of your tits and sucking angry red marks into your collarbones and neck. Every part of you will be sore tomorrow but that's something you'll deal with later.

He lets you ride his fingers, scratching at his back and shoulders, fisting his hoodie and when you finally let go and the orgasm makes your eyes roll back into your head, he pulls you back into him for a kiss. It's messy, all teeth and tongue. When he pulls back there is a string of saliva connecting you two and if your mind wasn't currently wiped by the mind-blowing orgasm you would be embarrassed by the pornographic imagery. Simon forces you to look at him, his big, rough fingers holding up your chin to make you meet his gaze. You finally see the color of his eyes: brown, with pupils dilated wide. "We're nowhere near done," he says.

Simon is a whirlwind; he makes decisions, and you find yourself following them as if they were orders. He doesn’t wait for an invitation; instead, he stands behind you, his chest against your back, providing support as your legs feel like jelly. The drinks you had are wearing off now.

When you take too long to get out of your shoes, Simon tosses you over his shoulder. "You're taking too damn long," he says. You give him directions to your bedroom, and before long, you're dropped onto the sheets. You’re about to call him a caveman for his methods, but the sight of him pulling off his hoodie, revealing he’s not wearing anything underneath, leaves you speechless.

His skin is pale, but you can still see angry-looking scars on his torso and arms. Some of them resemble cigarette burns, while others look like bullet wounds that didn't heal properly. All of that should make you reconsider the kind of danger you’ve just invited into your bed, but as your gaze wanders lower, following his blond happy trail, you find yourself unable to think about the consequences.One of his hands is tattooed up to his elbow, and you can't really tell the design in the low light but it only adds to his appeal. Something possesses you to act, you end up reaching for his zipper before he can and he only gives you a wolfish grin before you pull him out.

He's not wearing any underwear. Your mouth dries up at the sight of him. That's never going to fit. Only after hearing him laugh did you realize that you had said that out loud. He was already hovering above you, caging you in against the sheets. "We'll make it fit."

Your skirt and shirt with your bra soon follow his pants and are lost to the shadows of your bedroom floor. Your eyes are drawn to his dick, you can't help it. He's big and thick you can already imagine the stretch, there's a vein on the underside that makes you wanna follow it with your tongue all the way to the top to catch the pre-cum already gathered there but he doesn't let you. Instead, he drags you to the edge of the bed and throws your legs over his shoulders. You almost want to argue that you hadn't showered, it's been a long day, and he doesn't have to do this but one look at the intense stare makes you swallow all of that down. You don't want to mention that you've never had anyone go down on you before. Your ex-boyfriend wasn't one to reciprocate.

There is no time to think about how miserable your sex life might have been. A bite to the inside of your thigh serves as a warning, both to stop thinking and not close your legs. In your defense, you didn't even realize you were doing it. His eyes are almost unnervingly focused on you before he dives in. He's always been a bit of a messy eater; the sounds he makes in the back of his throat are nothing short of animalistic. If you weren't shaking from his ministrations, you might think he's enjoying himself even more than you are.

He only moves a bit to lock eyes with you and tell you how sweet you are, juices dripping down his stubbled jaw. "Come on now, gotta make sure you're ready f'r me, doll." He alternates fucking you on his tongue and sucking on your clit, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to keep them open for him. He's only barely controlling his strength so you know there will be bruises on your hips and thighs tomorrow but you can't bring yourself to care especially not this close to another orgasm. He can feel you twitching, getting closer and closer. There's a second of fear that he'll stop but he doesn't. Instead, he adds a finger and pushes on that one spot that made you see stars. That was all it took to wring the second orgasm of the night out of you.

Boneless, you let go of the sheets you were gripping. You only get a second of rest before he's repositioning you on the bed again; it would be infuriating if you could actually move properly.

He presses you into the mattress with his body, his scarred lips brushing next to your ear. "This will be a rough ride for you, don't say I didn't warn you." that's all you get before he bullies the ruddy head of his cock inside of you. You have half a mind to pull away but his weight keeps you in place, when he finally bottoms out there are tears in the corner of your eyes from the stretch, he only drops a few open-mouthed kisses to your shoulders before he rises to his knees and pulls your ass to him.

Everything after that is a blur, you're going crazy from the echo of the slapping of skin against skin, and your arms gave out on you midway so all you can do is scrunch the sheets in your hands and moan out his name like a prayer, to slow down? To go faster? You don't know. If he set out to make sure you can't think he achieved it. Your brain is fuzzy, your legs are shaking and a knot is unwinding in your lower stomach again. It's all too much and not enough at the same time. One of his hands finds your clit and it's over for you. "Come f'r me, doll. That's it." You can hear him hiss from the way you tighten around him as you come. He doubles down chasing his own orgasm now, balls slapping against your pussy even harder. There is a split second of clarity that he didn't use a condom (even though you are on a pill) but as soon as the thought registers he's filling you up with a groan before again squishing you underneath him, cock still lodged deep inside you, keeping his spend from leaking out. When you try to move from underneath him, he only chuckles before his hands find your tits and knead them, making you moan. It will be a long night for you. You've invited a ghost into your bed, and now you must deal with the consequences.

The picture you took with a large black shadow looming over you in the mirror, with a tattooed hand resting on your neck, might help you get rid of your ex who keeps creeping on your social media posts.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLITTLE FREAKㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When You Like To Suck On Their Man Boobs...

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. Reader probably have mommy issues. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You crawl onto his lap in the dark after a rough day, mumbling something soft, curling into his chest—and then latch. Lips to his pec like it's instinct, soft suckling, warm breath fanning his skin. He freezes.

“...What are you doing?”

“Comforting myself,” you mumble.

And he goes silent. Letting you. One arm around you, the other gripping the armrest so tight it creaks. You’re suckling like you belong there, like he's yours, and he can’t say no.

From that moment on, he lets it happen. After patrol. Before bed. When you're needy. Bruce gives you his chest like it's sacred. He even leans back, pulls his shirt up, offers himself with that stoic daddy face like this isn’t the most perverted, intimate thing he’s ever allowed.

“If it helps you calm down… then it's fine with me, sweetheart.”

He never talks about how hard it makes him. How he aches when you sigh into his skin like you're home. But he thinks about it every night.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You don’t even warn him. You just crawl into his lap, kiss down his chest, and then suckle. Slowly. Gently. Dick yelps.

“OH my god, are you—?! Babe! You’re—?!”

He’s red. His abs are flexing. His hands are hovering, unsure if he should stop you or shove you closer. But then you whine softly, still suckling, still nuzzling like it soothes you—and he dies inside.

“Okay. Okay. You wanna use me like that? I’m… totally fine with it. This is fine. You’re so cute, I’m losing brain function.”

From then on, he encourages it. Shirtless in bed. Chest puffed. Pulls your head down while cooing in your ear, telling you how sweet and clingy you are.

“You just need your mommy, huh? That’s okay, baby. Mommy’s right here.”

(And yes, he gets off to it later. Always. Every time.)

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason’s not built for it. You suckle his chest like it’s natural and he blanks out. Like, full system reboot. He was kissing your forehead. Then you latched. And now he’s short-circuiting.

“...Are you serious right now?”

“Mhm. You feel good…”

He just stares down at you. Then lets his big arms wrap around you. His whole body goes gentle, like he’s holding a baby deer.

But then—then—you do it again the next day. And the day after. And suddenly? He’s hooked. Growling in your ear when you try to pull away.

“Nah, nuh uh. You started this, now you finish it. This is mine, right? You suckin’ on me like you need it.”

He’ll strip shirtless and sit with his legs spread, arms open.

“C’mere, baby. You thirsty or just needy? Either way, I got you.”

He gets possessive. You’re his little freak. And he’ll make sure you never go a day without “nursing” on his chest.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You do it once and he loses his entire mind.

He glares at you like you’ve insulted his honor. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you. Just clenches his jaw while you suckle his chest like it’s your only source of comfort.

“Tch. This is completely inappropriate.”

“Then push me off.”

“...I didn’t say stop.”

From then on, you have him wrapped around your finger. You climb into his lap and tug his robes aside, exposing his chest, and Damian just sighs like you're insufferable—even while he strokes your hair, thumb brushing your cheek lovingly.

“You are ridiculous. Clingy. Absurd. …Are you comfortable?”

But god forbid someone else see it. He will murder. You’re his. He keeps you close, glares at everyone, makes sure you get to suckle whenever you want—because it keeps you soft. Dependent. His.

And when you sleep with your mouth still against his skin, he watches you with a low, reverent whisper.

“Mine. My strange, beautiful girl.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

At first? He thinks you’re being cute. Kissing his chest. Nuzzling against him. He’s like,

“Aw, you’re clingy today—wait. Are you sucking?”

And then your mouth doesn’t move. It just latches onto his pec like you belong there. Warm, slow, wet. Like his chest is your pacifier and you’re not going anywhere. Terry freezes. Blinks. His heart does that thing where it drops into his stomach.

“Baby… what’re you—mm… okay. Yeah. Okay. That’s… yeah.”

Now he lets you do it. Arms behind his head, letting you suck while he talks casually, like this isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. He starts wearing looser shirts around the house. No reason. Just in case you want to do it again.

“You’re kinda insane, you know that? But… I’d let you do this forever.”

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

He should be more shocked, but Barry’s been lonely for years. The moment you curl into his lap and push up his shirt, placing your lips to his chest, he goes still—then melts. His hands cradle your head. His voice drops to a murmur.

“You want comfort? This what helps you, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t tease. He just… offers himself. Calm, soft, safe. But it makes his whole body burn. He starts getting hard every time you do it, even if all you’re doing is suckling gently and sighing against him. You mumble about how he feels like a mommy, and he chuckles, brushing your hair back.

“You like being my little girl, huh? Keep going, then. Take what you need.”

His voice is so steady, but he’s feral inside.

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

You latch on without warning. Soft, suckling, making the tiniest sounds like you're trying to fall asleep against him. Cassian doesn’t get it. His whole body tenses like you just broke him. He looks down with wide eyes, confused as hell—then just lets you do it.

Every night after that, he waits for it. Pulls you to his chest. Doesn’t even ask. He just slides his shirt off and holds you there, hand in your hair, legs tangled with yours.

He doesn’t speak, but his eyes say everything. Please stay close. Please don’t stop. You’re not just his lover—you’re his obsession, and this is your way of claiming him.

Eventually he starts doing it back. His mouth on your chest, copying you, learning it, giving it back with trembling need.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

You? Suckling on his chest like a needy little brat? Stephen thinks he died and went to heaven. The first time you do it, he moans out loud, throws his head back like you just blew his mind.

“OH my god. Are you breastfeeding on me? Babe. Babe. You can’t just do that and expect me to not get hard.”

He starts wearing tank tops. Starts offering his chest like it’s free real estate. Arms out, smug grin, like:

“You want my milkers, baby? Come get ‘em.”

Every time you do it, he talks. Teases you. Groans. Calls you “his little baby” and “his needy girl” while cradling you in his lap and rocking you like a lunatic. But under the playfulness he’s gone. Worshipping the closeness, the warmth, the way you melt in his arms and claim him with your mouth like he’s yours to feed on.

“You’re never gonna grow out of this, huh? Good. I’ll let you feed forever.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[webbluvrsugar]

earlyseasons!spencer making you squirt.

cw: doesn’t mean sub!spencer, it’s more like eager Spencer experimenting on reader, written mostly for funsies.

Every since you and Spencer have been messing — fucking — around, you’ve noticed that he’s been a little shy, at least at first, his touch has been gentle but also… experimental, the way he looks at you when you’re under him and pushes you just a little harder almost makes you feel like like he’s studying you, testing something on you. But he’s a profiler, he’s learned that you don’t mind, so when he comes with the proposition of trying to make you squirt, you’re doubtful, specially as he pushes you down on your bed — already naked.

“Spencer, you don’t really need to do this, I —“ you try to speak but he’s quick to interrupt you, his hands running down your thighs.

“I know, I just.. I just want to try something new, just for a bit,” he hushes, eyes looking up to you for approval as he puts away his glasses and when Spencer says ‘just for a bit’ he is indeed just… lying, lying to your face.

His tongue licks a fat strip up your folds, it’s bold, something that he’d at first would hesitate to do, gently circling your clit before he attaches his lips onto it, gently sucks and his fingers go up to spread you further.

Spencer’s tongue feels good, but by now, you know that he would’ve already tried to stick a finger or two in you, but he doesn’t, it almost seems like he’s trying to reach this personal goal of his all with his mouth, and he’s doing a good job at it, because his tongue prods at your entrance and you arch your back, softly moaning, head throwing back and meeting your pillow.

“How does that feel?” He questions as if you need to answer for him to know it.

But still, you nod again, “Good,” you whisper, hand going down to grab at the sheets.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He grins, cocky, before his mouth latches onto your cunt again.

He devours you, nose bumping into your clit as his tongue precisely chooses where to run through, your breath being taken from your lungs when it caresses your insides one more time, the warm tip of the muscle moving within you.

“Spence,” you whimper, your knees struggling to keep themselves in place as he pulls back and pays attention to your swollen pearl one more time.

“Close?” He asks, tongue licking up a few more times through your folds, trying to get all up in there.

“Mh — Mhm,” you moan, a pleased sigh following suit.

“Did you know that —“ he pauses, “statistically, only thirty-five to fifty percent of women have experienced squirting mid sex—“ he presses an open mouthed kiss to your cunt. “But it depends on the method, I’ve read about it, we can try and see if this will be the one for you.”

And for someone who’s so used to talking, Spencer finally goes to quiet after a while and focus on your pussy, paying extra attention to what you like, guiding himself with your moans and gentle curses.

“Spence—“ with that, he thinks this really might be his chance of getting you to do it the first try, so his lips wrap around your clit one last time, only letting go when he hears a hushed cry of his name escape your lips— “Spencer!” A stream of fluid expels from you, and he watches in awe, slightly tilting his head as your body shivers and writhes right before him.

His hands gently caress your thighs, fingers letting go of your folds, his eyes finally meeting yours when you take a breath and before you can speak, he notes;

“Let’s do it again, maybe you’ll do it quicker if I actually use my fingers…”

[aubvrns]

you sleep so soundly, baby

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

Synopsis — You struggled to keep yourself awake to wait for Wanda, resulting to her finding you asleep on the couch. She proves how worth it she is to wait for.

Tags — Fluff (because I was happy today), Cuddling (because I am so touch deprived), Mentions of doing something more than cuddling (because I am a freak)

Note — Short, but I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

You remember trying to keep your eyes open.

But the soft, white covers of your pristine blanket betrayed you as the clock struck 11:00 PM. A faint anxiety lingered as you awaited Wanda's return from her mission, eager to be close to her after a week apart.

You did everything you could to stay awake—drinking two cups of coffee, watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, and scrolling through your old pictures on your phone.

Looking at those memories brought a smile to your face, even if it made you a bit emotional. You let out a heavy exhale and adjusted your position on the sofa, tucking your arms under the covers.

The last thing you remember is the thud of your phone hitting the bridge of your nose, followed by a sharp pain. But due to your extreme fatigue, you shrugged it off and fell asleep anyway.

—

“You look so freaking cute.”

You stir at the sound of someone whispering in your ear and reach for the covers, but someone else has already pulled them over you. Your head is no longer resting on the armrest of the couch; instead, it’s resting on a soft pillow.

You slowly flutter your eyes open, and familiar green eyes meet yours. The sight of her bright smile makes your heart skip a beat. As you rub my eyes, strong arms pull you closer to her warmth.

“Hey, you.”

Wanda's raspy voice brushed against your ear as her chin met your cheek, kissing your lips softly. “I missed you so much, my baby.”

Letting out a chuckle, you move yourself closer to her. Your arms wrapped around her torso as her hands lingered around your waist. You assumed she was just as tired as you and that both of you were now lying on the couch, latched onto each other.

“I don’t think I’m exactly baby-sized.”

You responded with a playful quip, causing her to burst into laughter. Without needing to think, you nestled your face into the soft curve of her neck, enveloped by the warmth of her presence. Her sweet, comforting scent of vanilla wafted around you, wrapping you in a soothing embrace that overwhelmed your senses and sent dizziness through your mind.

“You shouldn’t have waited for me. I could’ve just slipped under the covers with you the moment I got home.”

You felt her fingers gently running through your hair, a soft touch that sends shivers down your spine. Her smile feels warm and exciting as you hug, bodies fitting together perfectly.

“I wanted to wait for you. ” You mumble against her neck, placing a gentle kiss before nuzzling into her again.

Your words made her heart flutter. Wanda gazed at you with a warm, affectionate smile that lit up her entire face, her eyes sparkling with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “Go to sleep. Don’t make me love you even more than I already do.”

You roll your eyes playfully, slowly pulling yourself to sit up.

“How much do you love me?” You whisper like you were spying on someone, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You knew she loved you as much as you did. To love someone is worth the effort of pulling them from sitting to lying back with you, and that is exactly what she did.

Wanda grinned, sides of her mouth turning upwards as she sultrily whispered back, “Want me to show you how much I do?”

Oh, she’s good.

“Not really in the mood right now but okay.” You bite back, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before tucking yourself back into the comfortable blanket.

The weight of it was pressing against you, but it was to keep you warm. You knew she was worth waiting for, even if it meant the depravity of the lack of sleep.

“Boring.” Wanda pouts, kissing you back. She waves her fingers gently as she threaded red energy amongst the air, closing all the lights in your home.

The covers weren’t as heavy the moment she hugged you. Wanda made your heart race and your mind dizzy all at once.

You stare at her, the moon reflecting softly at the glint of her eyes. Whispering softly, “I hope it’s you I wait for everyday.”

Wanda hummed in response, astute to knowing that to hope for it is unnecessary. It was already certain.

“I love you, too.”

—

[sh4nksslvt]

CLINGY MUCH? | ONE SHOT

Shanks x GN!Reader

Zoro x GN!Reader

Mihawk x GN!Reader

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

tags: sfw, fluff, soft, ooc(?)

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

You were many things aboard the Red Force—calm, sharp-tongued, and painfully unbothered by Shanks’ endless antics.

You were also completely unaware of the fact that the most feared (and flirted-with) captain in the New World couldn’t seem to stop touching you.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a romantic way… at least, not that you noticed.

He’d toss an arm around your shoulders like it was a habit. Rest his hand on your waist when laughing. Tug you into his side when something “dangerous” happened, like a slightly aggressive breeze or a seagull flying too low.

You just chalked it up to him being Shanks.

Until, one bright morning, the crew decided enough was enough.

It started with Benn Beckman sighing dramatically as he walked onto the deck.

“Do you two need a room or something?”

You blinked from where you stood, arms crossed. “We’re not even doing anything.”

Benn pointed. “His hand has been on your lower back for ten minutes.”

Shanks blinked down at his own hand like it betrayed him. “Huh. Didn’t even notice.”

You raised a brow. “Are you okay? Do you have tactile issues?”

Lucky Roux snorted as he passed by with a turkey leg. “Yeah, it’s called ‘falling for someone and not knowing what to do with your hands.’”

Shanks turned red. You remained… utterly unaffected.

“Touch-starved pirate disease,” Lime Juice muttered, jotting fake notes like a doctor. “Tragic. Symptoms include: prolonged physical contact, excessive grinning, and spontaneous cuddling in public.”

Hongo popped his head out of the crow’s nest. “I saw him brush your hair behind your ear during the storm last week.”

“That was because it got in their face,” Shanks defended.

You nodded. “He didn’t want me to get stabbed by my own bangs. Very heroic.”

“You’re wearing a braid,” Yasopp called from the helm.

A long pause.

“…Okay, I’m not good with excuses,” Shanks muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand bumped yours in the process.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“You’re touching me again.”

“...I genuinely didn’t notice DAHAHAHA.”

The crew erupted into laughter.

You blinked slowly and glanced down at your joined hands, then back up at him. “You’ve been holding my hand for a minute now. You good?”

“Maybe.”

You stared.

He stared.

“…You’re kinda warm,” he added, grinning.

“I’m wearing gloves.”

“Exactly. Impressive.”

You didn’t smile, but your voice was flat with dry humor. “You wanna marry me, too? Get it over with?”

Shanks choked. “Whoa—what?”

“You’re already touching me like I’m your lover. Might as well commit.”

The crew howled.

“I’m starting to like them more than you, Cap,” Benn said, lighting a cigar.

“They’ve got more bite,” Lime Juice grinned.

Lucky Roux offered you a celebratory turkey leg like a sword. “You just proposed better than he ever could.”

You calmly took it, giving a single nod. “Thanks. I accept my own proposal.”

Shanks was still frozen. “Wait, are we actually engaged now?”

You took a slow bite of the turkey leg, deadpan. “Keep touching me like that, and you’ll owe me alimony.”

ZORO

You were minding your own business—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, back leaned slightly against the Sunny’s railing—when a familiar weight thunked into your side.

Again.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t glance, didn’t even blink. Just spoke.

“Zoro.”

“What.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.”

“Treating me like a living chair.”

He grunted. “You’re stable. And not annoying.”

“That’s a compliment?” you asked, still deadpan.

“Take it or leave it.”

The crew had noticed. Of course they had. This was the sixth day in a row Zoro had casually latched onto you like a sleepy barnacle.

“Oi, mosshead!” Sanji snapped, appearing from the galley with smoke swirling and a righteous fury in his eyes. “Get off them, you clingy cucumber!”

Zoro cracked open an eye. “Make me.”

“Oh, I will!” Sanji stomped over dramatically. “Y/N-chwaann shouldn’t have to carry your freeloading swordsman body weight! If anyone deserves to be close to them, it’s me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally tripped into my lap yesterday trying to ‘tie your shoe.’ You were barefoot.”

“It was a metaphor!” Sanji cried. “For falling head over heels!”

Zoro scoffed. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Says the mossy limpet glued to their side like a touchy fungus!”

Zoro didn’t move. “Jealousy’s not a good look, curly.”

“You—!!”

“Guys,” Nami sighed, “can’t we go one day without turning affection into a shouting match?”

Brook leaned on his cane, chuckling. “Yohohoho! Young love… or something!”

Usopp squinted. “Wait. Has Zoro always been this clingy with Y/N?”

Robin smiled mysteriously. “Since thriller bark, at least.”

Franky nodded solemnly. “Saw him fall asleep on their shoulder mid-battle once. SUPER unconscious.”

“I thought he was dead,” Chopper added, horrified. “Turns out he was just really comfy.”

Zoro’s grip on your shoulder tightened very slightly, and you finally glanced sideways at him.

“Do you know you’re this touchy?” you asked.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate into the deck. “I… just don’t mind you being close.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that samurai code for ‘I like you’?”

Sanji audibly gagged. “Oi! Don’t flirt in front of me!”

“We’re not flirting,” you said.

Zoro mumbled, “Might be.”

Sanji died inside.

“Y/N-chwann” he said gravely, dropping to one knee. “I beg of you—pick me instead! I would never lean on you like a sweaty tree log!”

Zoro growled. “Because you’d faint from being close.”

“AT LEAST I’D DIE HANDSOME!”

You looked between the two of them and sighed.

“I just want to drink my tea without being fought over,” you muttered, walking off—Zoro immediately following, like a shadow with swords.

“You’re still touching me,” you noted.

“Didn’t say I’d stop,” he replied casually.

You stopped walking, turned, and looked him square in the eye.

“You’re aware this is very couple-coded, right?”

He blinked, then grunted. “Guess we should make it official then.”

You blinked right back. “That was fast.”

“Why waste time.”

You smirked just a little. “Romantic.”

He shrugged. “You’re warm. And you don’t talk too much.”

“That’s your idea of a proposal?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

From behind you, Sanji dramatically screamed into the ocean.

MIHAWK

Kuraigana Island was a wasteland of stone, wind, and uncomfortable silences. You didn’t mind. You were the type to thrive in eerie places — quiet, observant, and allergic to nonsense.

Which is probably why Mihawk didn’t bother with small talk.

Or... so you thought.

Lately, the world’s greatest swordsman had developed a habit of materializing wherever you were. You’d be cleaning a blade — and there he was, pouring tea. You’d sit on the crumbling stone wall for some air — and there he’d be, suddenly trimming the overgrown vines right next to you.

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

Until today.

“...You know you don’t have to sharpen every one of my knives,” you said flatly, watching him work silently at the bench beside you.

“I didn’t,” Mihawk replied, still honing the blade. “Only the dull ones.”

You blinked. “That was my butter knife.”

“Then it was very dull.”

From the far side of the ruins, Zoro grunted as he finished a set of squats. “He refilled their canteen twice this morning.”

“Once,” Mihawk corrected, still not looking up.

“Twice,” Zoro insisted. “Once after breakfast. Then again after they just looked at the sink.”

Perona floated down with a snort. “He also folded their coat. While they were still wearing it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. Is that why my sleeves were shorter for a second?”

“You had a wrinkle.”

“I always have a wrinkle.”

Mihawk looked up with that unreadable expression. “And now you don’t.”

Zoro huffed. “What even is this? He acts like a butler. But like, a scary one.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not a butler.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Perona muttered, arms crossed. “You fixed the strap on their satchel too.”

Mihawk didn’t respond to that.

Perona raised a brow. “You gonna deny it?”

“No,” Mihawk said coolly, “because it was crooked.”

Zoro leaned against a stone pillar, towel around his neck. “He also moved your seat at the dining table.”

“That was my seat,” you said.

Mihawk finally gave you a long, side glance. “You’ve sat on the left for the past four mornings. I simply ensured it remained consistent.”

You deadpanned. “You rearranged the furniture.”

“Briefly.”

Zoro stared. “And when they tripped over that vine—”

“I cut the vine before they fell,” Mihawk snapped with a tone just shy of defensive.

“Bro. You lunged across the courtyard.”

Mihawk sipped his wine calmly. “It was in the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And when you pulled me by the hood into the shade the other day?”

“You were overheating.”

“I wasn’t sweating.”

“You were blinking slowly.”

You stared. “That’s just how I blink.”

There was a long pause.

Then Perona gasped. “Wait, wait — you also fixed the strap on their scabbard!”

“I adjusted it. The weight distribution was uneven.”

Zoro clapped once, grinning. “So you are clingy.”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed, the glint in them sharp and dangerous. “I am not.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, amused. “Then what would you call this?”

He paused. “Awareness.”

Perona lost it. “You mean hyper-awareness. Of one (1) person.”

Mihawk ignored her. “It’s strategic. I simply ensure you're at your most efficient.”

“That’s not efficiency,” Zoro said, wiping his forehead. “That’s doting.”

Mihawk arched a brow. “You think a swordsman cannot be observant?”

“You folded their laundry in order of fabric weight.”

“They prefer it that way.”

You blinked. “I never said that.”

He side-eyed you, expression cool. “You didn’t need to.”

You blinked again.

Zoro grunted. “You see? He’s acting like we’re all weird for noticing.”

Perona jabbed a finger toward him. “He's totally doing the ‘if I act calm, no one will notice I'm obsessed’ thing.”

Mihawk finally gave a soft, tired sigh — the kind that said you people are exhausting.

Then, turning to you, he asked, “Would you like tea?”

“I haven’t said I was thirsty.”

He didn’t blink. “You will be.”

You stared. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” he said simply. “You’re predictable.”

You squinted. “...That sounds like flirting.”

Mihawk blinked slowly. “I don’t flirt.”

Perona groaned. “OH MY GOD—”

Mihawk stood up, cloak sweeping behind him, expression unreadable as always. He held out the canteen like he’d already won this conversation.

You took it with narrowed eyes, muttering, “Thanks... I guess.”

He nodded, calm as ever. “You’re welcome.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “Still denying it?”

Mihawk looked at all of them — then at you — and with perfect poise said,

“I’m just efficient.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

You stared after him, took a sip from the canteen, and sighed.

“…Efficiently annoying.”

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

it’s you, it’s you, it’s always you ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the blue lock boys who will only ever have one lover throughout their life…and the reasons why.

(a/n: this one can be cute but it can be just as humbling and cruel at the same time. i tried to be as realistically romantic as possible, remembering that the blue lock boys are still in the end, teenage boys)

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

the ones who have one lover simply because they’re loyal

isagi, yukimiya, kaiser

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ isagi - growing up with a loving family who loves him unconditionally, isagi is naturally someone who believes in monogamy and traditional dating values, such as loyalty. even if there is a hypothetical scenario where isagi falls out of love with his lover, he’ll still stay because he simply believes that it’s just “the right thing to do”. even if his lover breaks up with him, he’ll stay single because he doesn’t want the potential scenario where he falls back in love with his lover while dating someone else.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ yukimiya - loyalty and good morals is something that yukimiya shows a lot of in the series, so naturally, it’s the same when it comes to romance with him. cheating on someone is a clear “no” for yukimiya—why would he date someone in the first place if he’s just going to cheat on them anyways? and if his lover ever cheats on him? well, he’ll be far too heartbroken and insecure to ever go on a date with someone else ever again. he’ll probably try getting his lover back though.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ kaiser - i know, i know. kaiser, of all people, loyal? i think the biggest factor in this is his mother and also his constant needed desire for unconditional love. kaiser’s mother left him and his father, and kaiser is most definitely not wanting to follow in his mother’s footsteps. plus, kaiser canonically having studied psychology makes it clear that he probably knows that if he stays loyal to someone, that’ll make it easier to make them love him unconditionally. ultimately, kaiser’s sure as hell a red flag, but he’s not heartless.

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

the ones who have one lover because no one else wants them

bachira, nagi, hiori

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ bachira - i think we all know that bachira grew up pretty much alone. with such a lack of friends, the moment someone shows interest in him, he’ll latch onto them. it’s to the point where it gets unhealthy, as he’ll get into a nearly depressed state if someone he latches onto finds someone else, like his reaction when isagi and rin were ignoring him during the second selection. because of this, he’ll realize pretty damn quickly that if he wants someone else to be loyal to him, he’ll have to be just as devoted.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ nagi - similar to bachira, he grew up with basically no friends until he met reo. although nagi doesn’t seem to care nearly as much, ever since meeting reo, he is much more attached. nagi is self aware that he’s not the most pleasant of the bunch, so similar to how he is with reo, if he meets someone who genuinely cares, he will latch onto them. sure, there will be times where he will leave for a little while; but in the end, he will always come crawling back to his lover because he knows that no one else would want him.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ hiori - hiori is a weird one. a lot of people definitely have a crush on hiori; however, due to his childhood and the way that his parents treated him like more of a tool, hiori definitely just wants love—similar to kaiser. however, the biggest difference is that when hiori finds someone who loves him, he doesn’t realize that other people love him too. it very much matches the saying “love is blind” if you don’t understand what im saying. hiori is obsessed with the idea of being loved that he’ll do anything to help and stay loyal.

⋆｡°✩₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧₊ °✦

the ones who have one lover because they want no one else

reo, kunigami, barou

(a/n: remember kids, THESE are the MEN—not boys—who you should date)

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ reo - reo is someone where if he falls in love with someone, there is no one else in the world except for him and his lover. just looking at the way that reo acted when nagi left him for isagi says enough already on its own; reo didn’t try to find someone else to replace nagi—he tried getting nagi back and grieved. when reo falls in love, he truly wants no one else. even if someone goes on their knees and begs for reo to give someone else a chance, he’ll just reject them. in fact, reo will do anything for his lover to stay.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ kunigami - walking green flag. growing up with younger sisters, he knows that being loyal and dating someone who he truly loves is extremely important. he always makes sure to not date someone or give someone who he doesn’t like the wrong idea because he doesn’t want to break their heart and make himself feel guilty. similar to reo, once kunigami falls in love, the world is just him and his lover. to him, falling in love is an eternal thing—something forever. and kunigami knows better than to take advantage of that.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ barou - just like kunigami, barou always grew up with younger sisters who he took good care of. he understands to be a loyal man—that it’s important to treat someone who he loves in a devoted and loyal way. it’s rare for barou to fall in love because this man KNOWS his worth. he doesn’t want someone who will take advantage of him and his housewife ways; so barou falling in love is—like kunigami—a lifetime thing. he’s dedicated to whoever his lover is because…why shouldn’t he? if he fell in love, he won’t fall out of love.

[luveline]

i just saw someone on tiktok say “behind every girl that always wants to be around their partner is a little who’s dad didn’t choose her.” with aaron pls :(( and reader reveals her daddy issues? xxx

—hotch comforts you when you worry you depend on him for the wrong reasons. fem, 2k

You were aware of the irony. Girl who hates her father latches onto the first older man to give her any positive attention: the framing isn’t complimentary to either of you, and it’s not true, really. You love Aaron because he’s kind, and he’s handsome, and because he loves you first. You won’t pretend he’s perfect even if he might say that about you. He doesn’t have to be. 

Aaron is kind where all the other men in your life have been cruel. He is the person you go to when things go wrong, even if you don’t expect him to fix things for you. You know you have ‘daddy issues’, and you don’t want them to affect how you and Aaron are when you’re together, but it’s obvious to the both of you that you crave being looked after. The way Aaron takes care of you absolutely factors into why you love him. 

He wraps the tail end of your scarf into your coat and flattens the lump of it until it’s under your chin. “Alright?” he asks, not expecting an answer as he turns away to grab his own scarf. “Will that coat be warm enough? It might be a few hours.” 

“Fine. We’ll be inside most of the time.” 

“Mm,” he hums, reaching back to pinch your side. You laugh and he smiles but doesn’t say anything further, pulling open the front door, and holding it for you until you’re on the porch. 

“You know you don’t have to… spoil him, so much,” you say lightly. 

“It’s not spoiling, he only wants a few things.” 

You’d personally felt that Jack’s birthday wish list was a bit long, but you don’t care. You don’t have a vendetta against Jack's happiness. If Aaron wants to spend half a paycheck (alright, a quarter, if that) on some toys, he should do it. But he probably knows already that Jack won’t care if he doesn’t get all of that stuff. “I didn’t get half as much for my birthdays,” you say. 

“Believe me, honey, neither did I.” 

“One year someone’s mom got me a full box set of movies though. That was a good one.” 

“One year, I got two different pagers.” He snorts. “And now they’re useless.” 

“I never used a pager.” 

Aaron goes a bit red, self-shame or something silly like that. “Don’t tell me that.” 

“Cradle snatcher.” 

“Stop, that’s not funny.” 

It’s funny. You aren’t shockingly younger than Aaron but it’s definitely enough time to see the difference (not that you care, you quite like him with his permanent wrinkle between his brows and his big, big hands). “I really haven’t. I know what they are, of course, but I went straight to a cell phone.” 

He grumbles something unheard. Together, you get into his car and drive to the shopping centre nearest the house, a maze of storefronts with outdoor entrances, like a mall that’s been shaken and thrown out over two streets. It’s not entertaining but in a way, it’s good. Aaron holds your hand and you can walk around with your head held high, proud to be a well-dressed, in love-looking partnership. See, your face says to anyone who’ll look, I’m well-loved. 

After an hour or two he kisses your cheek and decides aloud that you need dinner. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry, he just chooses, and you love it. 

“Thank you for letting me come today,” you say, sitting across from him behind a dinner plate and a towering glass of lemon water. 

“Did I let you?” he asks, distracted by his steak and fries, though he sounds as loving as usual. 

“You could’ve said no.” 

“I have no reason to. I like when you’re with me. Thank you for letting me bring you, then, and boring you half to death.” 

“Freezing me the other half.” 

“Ah, so smart, so clever,” he murmurs. 

“Witty.” 

“Always, aren’t you?” 

You wonder about the dessert menu, find your mouth working of its own accord. “It doesn’t feel believable, sometimes. That you want me around so much.” 

He pauses, resting his knife across his fork. With a free hand, he gestures to your hand. “Would you like more proof?” 

You aren’t sure what he means, the tennis bracelet he got you for your first anniversary, or the engagement ring that sits heavily on your marriage finger waiting to be traded for a golden band. Maybe he means the teeny silver bracelet that falls down your arm whenever you move, that one just for fun. 

“Not,” he says slowly, his eyes squinted to tell you that you’re caught, “that jewellery should be your sole proof.” 

“Would you like to prove it to me now?” 

He reaches over to squeeze your hand. “I want you around all of the time. If I could I’d have us sewn together at the hip.” He’s grinning, thumbing against your knuckles. “It might not be comfortable at night when you’re trying to climb all over me.” 

“You climb all over me, Hotchner, don’t lie.” 

Aaron nods appreciatively. “That’s right. You’re the second most important thing in my life, and that’s not your fault, only Jack is so endearing.” 

“He’s a lucky kid.” 

“No, he’s not,” Aaron says gently, “but I really do love him.” 

“Of course he’s lucky. He has a dad who loves him to pieces, his Aunt Jess is like, superwoman, and– you know, I know I’m not the same as that, but I love him.”

“You look after him,” Aaron says. 

“It’s honestly just nice that you seem to like him. You don’t act like he’s an annoyance for you, you aren’t angry to have to come out today to get him his presents.” 

“Well, no. It’s not something to be angry about. When you have kids, you’re signing up for every part of having them.” 

“I know.” 

He takes a sip of his drink and puts it down beside your own in what you know to be him buying a little time. “Honey, is there something… I don’t know, something you want to talk about? Is it Jack's birthday…?”

You feel your heart fall into your mouth, as though it began life somewhere else, heartbeat mortified on your tongue. He sees you fluster and immediately softens, turning your hand in his to stroke along the inside of your wrist. 

“Nevermind,” he says. 

“No.” You clear your throat. “It’s not about Jack’s birthday. It’s just… you know you weren’t always the best father you could’ve been.” 

He nods. “I do.” 

“But you are now. You’ve made sacrifices, you– you chose Jack.” 

“I couldn’t not.” You’re quiet. He understands. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it now. Would that be better? You can think about what you have to say, and I promise I’ll listen without judging you when you’re ready to tell me about it. Okay?” He gives your wrist a squeeze. “You aren’t upset, are you?” 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“Are you too distracted for dessert?” 

You let Aaron pick one for you. Let him pay the bill, he’d be insulted if you even asked about splitting it, and he might genuinely get annoyed if you offered yourself. You usually love it. Someone loves you enough that money is practically immaterial. Just last month he had to have the roof of the house redone, and you know his money isn’t infinite, as does he, and yet it didn’t stop you from being spoiled, because any money he has was money shared. You know if he suddenly turned pauper he’d still spoil you, same way you’re spoiled with soft touches and less chores than you should take. 

“You know I don’t think of you as my father, right?” you ask. 

Aaron chokes on a startled laugh. “Of course I do,” he says, coughing, clutching your elbow. 

“So if I tell you that sometimes the way you treat me reminds me of my father, you won’t take it the wrong way?” 

“No.” He smiles where he should frown, wraps an arm behind your back when he should be judging you. “Men are still men. And I am a father, so it makes sense that you’d have those connotations in mind sometimes.” 

“I don’t want you to be my dad, but I do wonder… I wonder if I want to be around you so much because my father didn’t want to be around me. Does that make sense?” 

“I think it makes sense to wonder about it,” he says diplomatically. 

You’re nearly back to the car and this is a strange place to bare your heart, but it’s not so dramatic, you suppose. “I just think that sometimes I cling to you so much, and it must be– I’m insecure about you.”

“Mm, but you have no reason to be,” he says, pulling you closer still, his fingers aligned against your ribs and warming through your layers. 

“My father didn’t like me, not like you like Jack. There were things that were far more important to him. But with you, I’m important, and– and I know it’s not the same relationship, but–” You groan, not sure what you’re trying to say to him, or what you want him to understand. 

“My father didn’t like me, either,” Aaron says, encouraging you to keep walking to the car. “He was not a nice person. And it absolutely affected how I feel now, even if I don’t always think about him. The way he treated me when I was young influenced the person I am now. And looking for the things I wish he was, looking for kindness, for a gentle partner, it doesn’t mean that I need a placeholder for him, does it? I know what you’re saying to me. Don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be looked after.” 

You can’t help breathing out a sigh of relief. “Right.” 

“I’ve never been a young woman, and I don’t have a daughter, but it’s not hard to imagine how you felt. It’s okay to wish you’d been loved properly.” 

“I was never a daddy’s girl,” you confess. 

“It’s not fair. Everyone wants to be treasured when they're a kid. And it makes sense that you’re still looking for that feeling. We both know it’s not the same, but I really will look after you.” He smiles. “Okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry if it’s too weird.” 

“It’s not weird to want someone who takes care of you.” 

You bring your hands to his face. They’re smaller than his, you’ve shorter fingers with softer palms, but they fit perfectly on his cheeks. You tease the scratchy hill of his chin with your thumb before closing your eyes, reaching up for a kiss. The bags hanging from your elbows crack, crushed as Aaron gets his hands behind your back to hold you. 

“You’re too good to me,” you say softly, returning flat to your heels. 

Aaron pulls your face back to kiss your cheek. “You deserve everything you get, honey. I promise.” 

[abysswalkerastraea1]

Concurrent Resurgence

A staggering impossibility had occurred on the night of your death. And now, reborn and unhinged; bound to that creature they call the Miles County Clown, you'd witness first-hand just how far your depravity could go.

17k words

Size kink

Art is so dominant I needed an outlet to express this

A staggering impossibility had occurred on the night of your death. Just like any regular woman, you screamed and cried and ran from the miles county killer, in a state of frenzy and terror up until the very end.

Your life hung on the precipice as you lay upon the ground, torn open from the midsection and gasping on wet breaths, watching that demonic clown hunker down low, leaning over your friend Vicky as he devoured her face.

You remembered the world becoming dimmer and dimmer, wondering when you'd be devoured next, hoping to God you'd die first so that you didn't have to feel the excruciating pain Vicky had.

Your wish had been granted mercifully, the sound of police sirens and shouting fading out as you heard the final cacophony of a gunshot, and then your world turned black.

Lying as a bloodied corpse in the morgue, you didn't expect to open yours eyes ever again, life beating steadily throughout you even as something dark and heavy like lead anchored you boundlessly to miles county.

You came to the conclusion that you and Art miraculously died at the same time, yours from your injuries while his was from a gunshot to the head. You both breathed your last breath, and now you were both alive.

It was as though his dying soul had latched onto your corpse, a shard of it replenishing what should have been dead and burdening you with rot, decay and evil.

Art had tried to kill you on many occasions since then. He was pleasantly surprised at seeing you whole again, grinning and waving jovially, eager to murder you all over again, only..

You couldn't die, it was as though you were both the oxygen and the blood that keeps one another alive; if one dies, so does the other.

It took some back and forth, cat and mouse antics to learn this. He'd try and catch you, gripping you by the hair with a mallet in the other hand, bringing it down in a devastating blow. You think he realised something had changed when you caught his wrist with an incredible strength you never used to possess and forced his head through a break wall.

Art had given you something, and he cursed you because he knew he could never get it back.

You were two halves of the same coin, polar opposites and yet vastly similar now. Humanity remained within you, somewhere, but your emotions became dim, your morals deathly low, and evil began festering.

You became violent. Explosive, uncharacteristically wrathful. It didn't feel wrong, either. It felt good, and the effort it took not to absolutely maim someone was immeasurable.

Still, humanity lingered in certain things you did, and especially the way you processed emotions, even if they were as muddled as dirty water.

You and Arts lives were intertwined now, and although he had eventually gotten over the fact that he couldn't kill you, you saw him more often than you liked, your meetings often tedious and full of hate.

For the most part, him seeing you often resulted in the biggest, most dramatic eye roll you had ever witnessed, his middle finger sticking right up at you. He didn't find you fun anymore; you were as immortal as him, and that meant you were untouchable, as was he.

You don't know if it was coincidence or some sort of fucked up connection that made you cross paths so often. It made sense, considering a part of him lived within you.

And just like always, Art was there to make everything worse.

For the longest time you tried avidly to enter civilisation again, whether that be from trying to get a decent job, to going to parties and attempting to make friends, or even just simple things like getting your hair done and a manicure.

Half of you wanted your humanity to be in complete control again, enjoying the freedom of joy and life. The other half began condemning regular humans, wanting to be forcefully ostracised from society and it's confinement.

Parties didn't help. On your list of things that did help, partying was the absolute rock bottom. Your alcohol tolerance was still horrifically low, and your ire and hate for the people around you jumped tenfold.

So, all that would really happen is you'd try as politely as possible to make friends at a party, get rejected, and savagely smash their heads into nearby picture frames. Or whatever happened to decorate the wall.

You'd then drink, alone, and become devastatingly drunk. And of course each and every time, Art would find a spare minute or two to observe you once you made your horrible walk of shame home, appearing from the darkness just to point and laugh at you and buckle over.

With your newfound strength and wrath, this often led to fights with you being the instigator.

Bottle in hand, you smashed it into the clowns face viciously, watching his expression turn to one of dramatic shock as he fell backwards from the force, your drunk self falling with him.

You were so intoxicated that once you hit his body you could hardly stand back up. Head laid against his shoulder awkwardly, you groaned and tried to ground yourself with a hand against his chest, collapsing with your feeble attempts.

You winced as your face made contact with the floor all of a sudden, Art having pushed you off roughly with a grimace.

Art knew he couldn't kill you, but he could break your ribs for good measure, grinning at the sickening crack of his boot ramming into your side. It caused you to vomit and go unconscious.

You woke up the next day in broad daylight, laying in the piss stained alleyway littered with rats. Chunks of your vomit and dirt spelling out 'Whore' across your forehead.

Since then, you and Art had toned down your rivalry somewhat, no longer fighting like cat and dog every other night, viciously finding ways to carve each other up.

You avoided each other for the most part. On occasion Art would seek you out just to be an asshole, slicing your cheek with a scalpel just after you'd finished doing your makeup, which infuriated you. Or after having your hair freshly done, he'd smear questionable substances all over it.

You had gotten so angry at that, that you'd went to his rotten workplace and tore half of it down before he managed to stop you.

Art - having realised the repercussions of having an enemy that he could not kill, that would be around with him forever and that would ruin his artisan-level work - certainly toned down his pestering.

You didn't see sight of him for a month after that. Let the asshole cry and lick his wounds, you had thought joyfully.

And now, he breaks into your home like it was his own, eating from your fridge and using your shower. You detested it at the beginning, throwing fully fledged tantrums at the fact that no matter what, you could not kill him. And hurting him too badly would in turn hurt you.

It was something you came to accept. After almost a year of fighting and stubbornness, you both began to yield, realising a stalemate when you saw one.

Art no longer smeared literal shit in your hair and you no longer broke his weapons. Seemed fair.

On the two year mark, Art frequented your home even more. Probably because it had everything he needed, and it had gotten to the point that you didn't even bat an eye at him. You'd still fight, where he'd end up laughing and mocking you and you'd end up furiously screaming at him, but it never really escalated from there.

Physical confrontation did happen rarely, but nothing..drastic. That shard of him within you had made you struggle to control your anger even after two years.

And then other times you sat silently on your settee, blanket drawn up to your chin as you watched a horror film alone. Just like every night, Art would come in and ignore you, but sometimes he'd be curious as to what you were doing, and flop down beside you far too casually.

You'd spare him a neutral glance, carelessly throwing the end of your large blanket at him. He'd excitedly accept it. He viewed it as one of your ritualistic customs when watching something you deemed as scary. Him accepting the blanket meant he was curious to know just what this 'terrifying' movie was about.

"Okay so, they can't find the key to unchain themselves to escape, so that guy has to saw his leg off.", you elaborated quickly, watching the scene unfold.

It wasn't your favourite film but it was on TV at the moment. Art folded his arms, watching patiently as the story proceeded. Your attention eventually faltered as a text message came through.

You responded promptly before putting your phone down. Then, another came through, and another, and you'd giggle to yourself quietly, typing. Art lolled his head back and to the side, watchful. You never really used that device anymore, he wondered what it was that gripped you so much.

He didn't have to wonder much longer as he ripped your phone from your hands and darted up, standing to his full height as he swiftly perused the text messages.

You jumped up after him, reaching a hand up to grab at him only for him to lift the phone above his head, gaze staring up to read them.

"Give me my phone now! I swear to God Art I'll fucking--", the rest of your complaining fell on deaf ears. Art rolled his eyes, all you ever did was pull tantrums and shout. And you never shut up, prattling on about one thing or another, screaming profanities and empty threats that Art didn't even deign to laugh at anymore, that's how common they were.

Eyes scanning the messages, a grin began to grow on his face, until full fledged laughter erupted silently. You seethed at him, clawing at his hands to try and grab it. Art eventually gave in, rolling his eyes at your continued threats, putting a hand against your shoulder and roughly shoving you away, phone thrown into your lap as you fell against the settee.

Before he left, Art turned back with his horn held between his legs obscenely, stroking it with a surprised face, eyebrows high and lips forming an 'o' shape.

You glared at him, but couldn't deny the way your cheeks reddened as his stroking got faster and his eyes rolled back in mock euphoria. You folded your arms and shrugged; you had nothing to say to that. Yes you were sexting some random guy and yes you wanted some dick.

Art tipped his hat with a dead expression, his mimicry representing a gentlemanly 'farewell and adieu', and his expression reading 'desperate whore'.

Before he finally departed, Art held up a scissors in one hand and a pliers in the other. He snipped them sassily, threateningly, grinning all the while.

"Yeah, well, if he's shit you're more than welcome to use them on him." You assured, and you meant it too. This guy seemed a little odd anyway, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Art seemed pleasantly happy with that, giving you a thumbs up with his back turned as he left the house in his Santa getup.

It was probably because you were overly horny, but...

No, you shook your head. Now is not the time to think of him like that. Honestly, you were getting more depraved every week.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You don't know what you were expecting, but it was.. anticlimactic.

You had become so sinful since your rebirth, average sex no longer doing it for you. The first guy was okay, an asshole, but okay. You tried so hard to be pleasant and normal but frustration and an unhinged desire coursed through you desperately.

It wasn't as though his dick wasn't to your liking, he was just so average and fucking human that you didn't even manage to get to the part that you desperately craved, your disgust evident.

Anyway, he seemed to think you had a bad attitude - you did - which led to arguing. You were not backing down and neither was he.

Raised voices turned into insults, both of you storming out of your bedroom and down the stairs as you reigned your anger in and told him to get out.

You could see Art from the front door, he must've came home at some point, focus taken from the TV as he watched you both scream at each other, boots propped up on your fucking coffee table which you told him not to do so many times-

And then your cheek was turning as this assholes hand met the side of your face.

You could feel your teeth clenching. Your face remained stoic, eyes burning with fury. You could see Art chuckling cruelly in the background, shoulders moving silently, incredibly invested in how this is going to play out.

It was only then did the asshole seem to notice a flash of black and white in the background, turning with an ugly scowl to the clown who now suddenly stood with a large smile, hands clenching and unclenching in anticipation.

He faltered, mild confusion and anger still evident in his scowl. An angry finger pointed in the clowns direction. "Who the fuck is that? You got a queue lining up after me, honey?" He spat the vile words at you, acidic and full of disgust.

You didn't have a chance to respond, lips quirking in mild amusement and eyes smouldered like a fiery, dark pit. The man scoffed, rolling his eyes at the demonic clown, before gazing back down at you with his lips snarling enough to bare his teeth.

"I knew there was something off about you, you fucking slut. Too proud to put out and, let's be honest," the man gave you a slow, disgusting once over, "not much to look at."

Something in you snapped, but all that came out was a gentle, breathy laugh, your eyes shining and dancing with a peculiar emotion. You wonder what it reflected. Judging by the way Art tilted his head from afar, assessing, before beginning to chuckle to himself even more, it must've been something ominous.

"What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole? Want me to come over there and give you something to really laugh at?!" The man roared at Art from across the room, utterly furious, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white.

Art began pointing and laughing now, wide eyed and crazed as he nodded vigorously as though to say 'please do!'

Before he could, you gripped his arm gently; your expression depicted a mocking sense of disappointment. "I've ruined your night, and wasted all of your precious time." You huffed, throwing your hands up in the air in defeat for him, indignant at yourself. "And like you said, I'm really not looking my best, am I? I apologize.", you smiled sweetly up at him, eyes squinted almost cutely.

The man paused at your admittance, evidently not used to any woman ever agreeing with him. He relaxed somewhat, nodding to himself as though to say yes, you are the problem, not him.

Arts dark eyes bored into your form, entranced, unsmiling, deadly.

"I'll make it up to you."

Your smile spread eerily wide, slow and deliberate and full of glee, frozen on your face. There was something ominous about you, mouth spread so far it looked as though you were doing a poor imitation of how a human should smile. It was too wide, too happy, unnatural. Slowly, you made your way to the kitchen.

The man appeared shocked and faltered, squinting at you as though to decipher what's going on. It felt like his eyes deceived him, searching desperately. Did he hear wrong? Did he miss something? Turning back towards the clown for some semblance of an answer, he seemed to have vanished. There was no trace of him ever being there, and there was no sound.

All was too silent, too calm, and it made his nerves stand on end, unsure, horrifically uncertain about everything he had just witnessed. He needed to leave.

The man tensed, back stepping at the sudden eeriness. It was so quiet, in fact, that part of his mind doubted that he had ever spoken to someone in the first place. Shaking his head, he turned to leave. There had to be a logical explanation for all of this. Without another thought, he turned and made his way to the front door.

If not that, then the knife embedded in his back surely did.

His keys suddenly dropped to the floor from his hand. The sound was loud, and would probably shock anyone out of a daydream.

Though, a second later, the horrific cry that surely tore his vocal chords was loud enough to make it evidently clear that this was all very real.

The life that had been temporarily drained from the house now sprung to life viciously, all at once.

Gripping a fistful of his hair, you dragged him roughly through your living room, kicking him so hard in the chest he convulsed, air struggling to enter his wheezing lungs. Blood covered his chin, eyes wide and unable to comprehend these sudden events; Questions swirled in his horrified orbs.

Lips curling in disgust, you jumped on top of him and began violently beating him. The man struggled hard, trying to buck you off of him and attack you back but to no avail. You were as immovable as a wall, face stoic and nonchalant as the man flailed back and forth, desperate to escape.

His eyes were wide, terrified, blood pouring down his face. In a flash, you held his fist tightly, catching it before it could make contact with you. You began to chuckle, mirth dancing in your irises, squeezing so hard you could feel the bone snapping.

It wasn't normal, this level of power, but it felt so beautifully natural to you, something dark and radiantly evil crying out in glory at your actions, delightfully satisfied.

He roared in pain, tears involuntarily streaming down his face, hand mangled and deranged looking as he cradled it to his chest. He shuddered violently, eyes wild in horror. "What the fuck are you?!"

"Me?", you thought aloud softly, bloody hand to your chin contemplatively as you stared up at Art, who was so suddenly by your side that it made the man flinch and choke on his breath in fright.

"I'm a..slut, right? That's the word you used?" You looked at the man for confirmation, who shook his head swiftly in regret, face contorting miserably as he realized his grave error. He began to sob.

You gazed up at Art, who was clenching his hands rhythmically again, laughter shaking his shoulders. There was more than satisfaction at watching this asshole get beaten; almost a hidden connection of evil sparking between you both. He was corrupting you, but you yourself made these choices. You, avidly, enjoyed this outcome.

"Is that right, Art? He said slut, didn't he?", you hummed in thought, scratching your head for an answer. Your crimson hands dyed your hair a terrifying red as you curled a lock thoughtfully between your fingers.

Art nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes off the way your blue orbs became corrupted, like sediment contaminating a clear pool. They shined as black as his now.

"It's funny," you began with a dreamy sigh, eyelashes fluttering back down at the miserable sight below you. The whites of your eyes appeared disturbingly bloodshot. "For being such a slut, I haven't managed to get a good look at you yet. We didn't get too far earlier, did we?"

The man below you was hyper ventilating now, shaking his head furiously, knowing and fearing where this was going. His mangled hand joined the other in what looked like to be a feeble prayer, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I-Im sorry! Youre not a slut, you're--youre stunning and I'm so, so fucking sorry--"

Your act dropped then, eyes dead and void. A sense of dread hung heavy in the air for this man; There was no way out, and no amount of pleading would change that. You lifted your knife carelessly in the air, twirling the weapon hauntingly. The look the man gave you would stay in your memory for a while, it was full of pure, unadulterated terror.

You brought the knife down, slicing in his groin. The man screamed so loud you thought his vocal chords had torn. Blood pooled around you, soaked you, bathed you in a pretty crimson to match your nails.

Art was a hysterical mess, hunched over and pointing and laughing, miming a condescending, fake sobbing at the pathetic man. He held a sinister mirth in his eyes, absolutely buckled.

Grotesquely, you dug your hands into the gaping wound you had made in the man's genitals, rummaging around with the sounds of squelching blood permeating the air. Finding what you were looking for, you held it up high between your finger and thumb, expression holding that all too familiar disappointment.

Your lips quirked, "Not such a big man now, are you?"

Art was rife with laughter and joyfulness, and before you knew it, your giggling turned into cackling, blood smeared all over yourself as you held your stomach, tears falling down your cheeks in sick, dark satisfaction.

You hadn't laughed this hard in years, hadn't felt this liberated and happy in a while. Everytime you calmed down, giggles becoming quiet, Art would hold up the castrated organ absurdly, wiggling it like an ugly worm with a look of surprise on his face, eyebrows high and mouth open, and you'd be on the floor cackling madly once again.

It must've been a grotesque sight, you on your knees upon the floor, blood sinking so deeply into your clothes you wondered if it would come out, wiping tears of laughter away only to smudge deep streaks of red across your cheeks. You looked like an animal, rabid and violent.

Art gazed down at your crazed form with a smirk of satisfaction, chaos swirling in his eyes. It was as though he had been waiting for that part of him to corrupt you, for your anger to explode, for your unhinged desires to manifest.

After some time, everything fell peacefully quiet. It was comfortable, and dare you say amicable. Your breathing was the only sound in the room, slowing down as you gazed down at the way your feet were absolutely soaked red.

Leaning back on your hands, you caught sight of the demonic clown with his arms folded, leaning against the wall. He seemed serene, no longer smiling but definitely not frowning either. His black eyes perused the coating of blood on the floor, making their way up to study you deliberately.

His stare was intense, and you couldn't stop your cheeks from lifting upwards into a smile. Pushing yourself to a stand, you grimaced at the mutilated body on the floor and shivered in disgust.

You nudged at the corpse with your foot, cringing. "Maybe mortal men just aren't for me, anymore. "Though," you began as an afterthought, "even if I had a boyfriend, you'd probably kill him anyway." You sighed, fully acknowledging this.

You weren't even aggravated by that fact anymore. It would've really angered you once, but what's the point? You and Art seemed bound together forever, by the looks of it. You couldn't imagine him sitting idly with another person in the house. But then again, neither would you.

Art deliberated, gazing upwards in brief thought, before shrugging too. Yeah, probably. Just to get under your skin, mostly. And maybe an inkling of something else. He finally nodded, eyes staring down at you from his nose, like an old librarian with their glasses on the end of their nose. Snobbish. He had a reputation to up hold, you know. His nonchalant expression read 'well, you're not wrong.'

You scoffed, though offered a small smile nonetheless. He was amusing. For a silent clown, he was awfully verbal with his theatrical ways.

But now you began to think solemnly; What you just did - the killing, the maiming, the castrating - was vile. It was unforgivable, sickening. Your human half knows this, and something is conflicted within you. It felt like two halves of yourself were at war.

Even still, you felt joy. And you know that's wrong, and it's absolutely maniacal. But what's even more astounding is right here, on a late Saturday evening, you and that stupid clown stood with an air of tranquillity and comfort, together. If this was two years ago, you'd be within inches of maiming each other.

Like a domesticated couple, Art got to work on disposing of the body, dragging it with ease to your back door, before disappearing. It left a streak of smudged red on your tiles. You got to work cleaning, rolling your sleeves up as you hunted for something to make your floor shine again. It took a while, but he was gone for some time anyway.

By the time everything was relatively tidy, it was past midnight. The stain on the floor had disappeared thankfully, and you felt refreshed after a hot bath, changing into comfortable pyjamas and fluffy socks.

You sat in your bed, blankets pulled comfortingly up to your stomach. Your bedroom was filled with dim lights, and they had their necessary effect of making you feel content.

You had chosen a random film to watch on tv. It didn't really matter which one because your thoughts were otherwise occupied. It played serenely in the background, but something was bothering you.

A part of you felt slightly deflated. You were still undeniably frustrated and borderline desperate to have this desire quelled within you, and now that you had a moment to yourself, it barrelled to the forefront of your mind.

It was a ridiculous feeling, but you couldn't help that you were so pent up. Maybe you were ovulating. That did tend to make your hormones go haywire.

Even still, you hadn't long killed a man. It would be wrong to..indulge after that, wouldn't it? You pursed your lips in thought, two sides of yourself fighting menacingly. You couldn't tell if your good was being corrupted, or if Arts evil that had tainted you had brought out repressed, dark feelings that most humans surely kept hidden.

You didn't feel guilty, which was peculiar. Your nature before meeting Art often held a lot of empathy. You could feel yourself shifting, but you could never pinpoint the change until it had already been demonstrated. From the way Art pierced his black eyes into you, you bet he could see the transformation easily.

Your thoughts were interrupted as the background noise of the TV suddenly became incredibly interesting to your brain. You paused, peering at the TV as the sounds of quiet gasps and sloppy kissing filled your room.

It wasn't even particularly erotic, but..

Even just the sounds had your pulse increasing ever so slightly. In your desperate state of mind, it was easy to imagine how that messy kissing felt, tangled up in somebody else, remembering the feel of bolts of arousal shooting down your body in tingles as it became more passionate, more eager.

You were in a trance, frozen as you watched and drank up every detail. Male hands gliding down a womanly figure, cupping her heavy breasts and listening to the shaky inhales and exhales she made, back arching into his hands needily.

You felt a hot warmth bloom in your abdomen, a pulse beating steadily between your thighs. How were you so affected by this? You weren't even just mildly turned on, you were in a state of full blown arousal, a stickiness oozing between your legs. You felt like some of that was from earlier, mostly from the anticipation of sex rather than the futile attempts that asshole made on you.

The image now depicted the man positioning the woman on her hands and knees, readying her. You gripped your blanket, wanting so badly to be touched like that again and actually enjoy it.

Your eyes were fixated on the screen, hyper analysing every detail you could take in. The world around you faded.

The actor on screen gripped the woman's hips roughly, situating himself behind her. He gave her no time to prepare before sinking in slowly, and you watched the way her lips spread open in a quiet moan, brows furrowed and chest rising and falling rapidly.

A wave of heat flashed through you, making you warm enough that you had to kick the blanket off your person. What film was this? It was incredibly pornographic, not that you were complaining..

Your bottoms were next to go, tossed haphazardly to the floor; you were sweltering. Granted, the room was far too warm anyway, but what you were witnessing on screen had you in a completely different state of over heating.

All you had on now was a pair of black, silky underwear and an oversized top. You felt dishevelled, and sighed as the scene ended far too quickly for your liking and the TV adverts started to play.

You watched on in boredom as Christmas adverts began popping up colourfully with the sound of bells ringing. You felt mildly irritated, your arousal fizzling considerably, but still prominent. You were left with the sticky reminder between your thighs, head lolling back against your bedframe.

Your head rolled to the left, eyes staring down your nose at the sight of your bedside drawer. Specifically, the one that held a lot of intimate objects. You felt a little cautious using the vibrator because knowing Art, he'd curiously come up to see what the noise was; he seemed to have acute hearing.

But if you went under the blankets, vibrator hidden between your thighs, there's no way he'd hear that. Your door was firmly shut and the buzzing was incredibly muffled under your duvet. You'd be quiet and keep it on the first setting.

You were astounded once again at just how wound up and sensitive you are, vibrator delicately touching your clit as your phone displayed a pornographic video.

The cock on the screen was a good size, and as you watched it's girth spread the woman's puffy labia, a sudden desperation gnawed through you. You pressed the vibrator onto your clit more directly, the bottom of your t shirt caught between your lips as your tits jutted out prettily on display, nipples pert.

You bit down on the fabric to quell your whines of delight, breathing sharp and fast through your nose as the vibrating against your clit became over whelming, body alight with a white hot fire that spanned from your abdomen down to your toes.

Your sodden hole clenched needily, you wanted to be filled but you needed a man to do that. You wanted to receive a worthy dick that would split you in half just like the woman on your small screen.

The scene changed abruptly, and what was shown next had your hips bucking desperately into the vibrator, teeth now clenching the fabric hard as your breathing became heavy through your nose, pleasure intensifying.

The man had the woman on her knees, his member shoved ruthlessly into her mouth as he gripped a fistful of her hair and used her like a toy. Saliva decorated her mouth, and you watched with rapt attention as the mans heavy balls slapped her chin; it all seemed degrading, but..

A moan escaped you, muffled, and your back arched as you moved a hand between your thighs and touched the outside of your entrance; you were absurdly wet, sinking straight through your underwear and smearing your inner thighs.

You so desperately wanted to grab the dildo from your draw and push it deep within yourself, hard, but you refrained. Your climax was approaching anyway, and you could hardly stop yourself from whining at the thought of being the woman on the screen, sucking a hard dick as you made a messy pool of wetness below you, begging to be split apart.

From there, it was a hasty descent into blinding pleasure, your wariness dimming as low moans escaped your lips. Your eyes were shut now, permanent soft frown creasing your eyebrows as you were so close to your peak, cresting at the very precipice--

A loud bang resounded in your room, loud enough to drag you out of your delirious stupor. Your eyes shot open in annoyance, wondering if you had kicked your remote control off of the bed, but then your blood turned to ice in your veins.

In fact, you sat so absurdly shocked that all movements ceased, eyes wide and unblinking at the now ajar door of your bedroom which you definitely, without doubt, unequivocally, had shut earlier.

You blinked rapidly, vibrator dropping from your hand. It buzzed obscenely on the bed with a sheen of lubrication covering the tip, but you hardly registered it.

The door was less than halfway ajar, your dark hallway the only thing you could see, and..

A hand flew to your mouth in utter mortification, cheeks flaming crimson. You felt dizzy with a multitude of emotions.

A messy, hand written note was celotaped to your door. In jagged, capital letters spelled 'Art was here'. With a crude, childish winky face drawn beside it.

Your breathing increased suddenly, limbs shaking with not only the almost-orgasm you were about to receive, but also the unusual fluttering of your stomach in nervous humiliation and something else.

You felt severely perplexed, biting your nails as you tried to reminisce, tried to pinpoint when and how he had opened the door without you knowing and celotaped that preposterous note to your door. How was that even possible?

Clearly, Art wanted to grab your attention just as you were about to orgasm, most likely banging your wall from the hallway, hard. It sounded like a picture frame had fallen.

That made sense. At the very least, one thing did. But what about the rest, how was he able to furtively open your door, noiselessly, undoubtedly watching you?

You bolted up straighter, eyes darting around anxiously. Oh my God, he hadn't just intuitively known you were touching yourself, he must've heard something. Were you loud? You couldn't remember, you were so dazed.

Your mind created pictures of your thoughts, envisioning him opening your door just a crack and--

Your hands covered your face. You were so embarrassed. Had he been watching you? He surely had. And alongside this humiliation, why did you feel a flutter of nervous excitement roll through you? Were you so depraved?

Your hands kneaded your blanket, gripping handfuls and releasing rhythmically. Holy God, Art had made you feel many things over the years.

Hatred, annoyance, recent joy and laughter, fear, anxiety, you could go on and on, but this?

This was something new. And yeah, maybe he only did it to get under your skin. What better way to mortify a woman than catching her red handed, touching herself, and calling her out on it?

But..

Your thoughts took it a step further.

Was there..any other reason?

You bit your lip in contemplation, arms wrapped around yourself comfortingly. At some point over the past two years, brief thoughts of the demonic clown had entered your mind, fleeting sexual thoughts that left as quickly as they came.

Because, well, you were evidently desperate at this point. And he had a certain charm about him, once you got passed the ire you once held for him. And he was a man, or in a man's body, anyway.

Your mind swirled with questions, dirty thoughts, and unending embarrassment each time you realised he probably saw everything that you did.

And he probably saw the way your teeth gnawed into your shirt to silence yourself, heavy breasts poking out beneath, fully exposed, expression one of unbridled, desperate pleasure.

Your heart beat felt like it was in your ears, anxiety high. The door remained open for a reason. He wanted you to come out, and then wanted to absolutely humiliate you.

You got along a lot better now, as evidenced earlier, but that didn't mean that he'd stop messing with you.

Begrudgingly, you knew that even with your enhanced abilities and strength, you were no match for him. If he wanted to truly be hidden, he would. If he wanted to truly be swift and unseen in his movements, he would be.

You often found your bizarre abilities only worked when you were angry, or felt some sort of negative emotion.

Otherwise, you were just a regular human, having no control over that shard of terror that lingered within you from your rebirth.

Steeling your nerves, you took slow steps towards the door. You were still clad in your long t shirt and fluffy socks, and schooled your expression into one of stern stoicism.

You couldn't avoid that asshole forever.

Gripping the door handle, you stepped fully into the darkness of the hallway, enveloped. Standing still for a few moments, you realised he obviously wasn't outside your door, waiting to terrify you.

Swallowing nervously, you made your way downstairs. The stairs groaned and creaked like they always did, but it sounded absolutely deafening to you as it signalled your descent.

Out of everything that he had ever done to you - from killing you, to breaking your bones, stabbing you and everything else - this made you feel the most vulnerable.

Your living room was pitch black, not a single light illuminating the area. You held your breath, listening as intently as you could.

Silence.

Your throat felt too dry to call out to him. You knew your voice would shake, your words would stammer. It would make the situation even more shameful, so you remained quiet.

Your eyes surveyed the living room in darkness, honing in on any unnatural shadow that seemed a little too eerie; he wasn't here. That frightened you more than if he had taken this moment to jump out at you.

Uneasy frustration welled up within you. Not only had your pleasure been ripped away from you, your legs uncomfortably sticky, but now you felt incredibly exposed.

Inhaling deeply, you glared holes into your kitchen door. Two things could happen here: Either he was in there waiting to scare the hell out of you, or he wasn't in there at all, making you more on edge.

You pushed the door open, trailing inside with faux confidence, switching the lights on.

Nobody was here.

If anything, the kitchen was still surprisingly how you left it earlier - clean. Eyebrows drawing together into a scowl, you grabbed a glass of water, chair screeching as you took a seat.

Art must've pulled that trick on you and then promptly left, entering the night to no doubt destroy another victims life.

Brushing your dishevelled hair out of your face, you sat back against the chair defeatedly. Well, your emotions aren't going to change what's already happened, and you'd have to face that asshole at some point.

Evidently, tonight was not the night.

Glancing at the clock, you couldn't believe that it was already 3am. Your eyes felt heavy, your limbs felt weary and you were burnt out.

Peering around the kitchen, you realised that you must've left your phone upstairs.

That's fine, you needed to sleep anyway. Pushing yourself to a stand, you trudged sleepily up the shadowed stairs, rubbing at your burning eyes with the back of your hand.

You felt content at the moment to sleep off the crazy events of the day and worry about them tomorrow. Your door was open, just as you had left it, and the comforting glow of your warm lights that emitted from inside welcomed you with open arms.

Stepping into the safety of your room felt relieving, and as you turned back to close the bedroom door firmly, you came face to terrifying face with a chest.

You froze, mind pausing in fright at the sudden, tall body that blocked your doorway. You blinked rapidly, face displaying astonishment, and snapped your head up at the perpetrator, wide eyed.

What stared back down at you made caution well up inside you. Art stood tall, appearing out of thin air clad in his absurd Santa costume. It suited him, and the bulky material only served to make his structure appear even bigger, more menacing.

Your eyes fluttered up at him with uncertainty, darting rapidly between his face and his chest as you struggled to maintain his intense eye contact.

The clowns face was all sharp contours, edged smile of amusement plastered to his face as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed languidly across his chest, widening his overall structure considerably. Has he always been this big?

He watched you with a wide, salacious grin, eyes alight and unwavering, and from the glint in his eye you knew what was about to come.

You swallowed, feeling your mask of neutrality betraying you as your body heated up, displaying a pink hue to your complexion. You didn't know what to say, how to act. Art could see this, the way you'd open your mouth only to close it, eyes darting around nervously.

You were usually so full of complaints, insults and incredibly argumentative when he had 'crossed the line', as you so often called it. As he so often did. Since your rebirth, you were all fire and wrath, near enough ripping his head off for something as simple as leaving a bloody mess on your floors or your door handles, if he didn't clean it anyway.

Of course, Art had begrudgingly agreed with you long ago to cease the truly harsh fighting, but that didn't mean that you didn't bicker, in a sense. He liked your ire, the way your teeth would grind together in anger, the way you'd go into an absolute fit if he threatened to childishly mess with your makeup and clothes, or anything you held valuable, really.

It was funny, and he knew you secretly got a kick out of it. Once the cat and dog game was over, you'd snap back to being a sweet, little human. It was interesting, and so amusing.

But this? Art peered down at you deliberately, perusing your flushed exterior with a smug, self satisfied grin.

He had been looking for new ways to get you to crack. So far, everything annoying he did was met with your aggressive screeches, and that was fine. But he needed something juicy, needed something that would really bother you, rile you up.

For a while, he struggled to find anything. He couldn't go too far with his schemes - you were both bound together, after all, so that would be met with futility.

He truly enjoyed bothering you, that was true, but his methods got boring. What could he possibly do that would make you think twice, or go silent? What would really shock you, make you revert back into your humanity, so full of emotion?

As a point of reiteration, he could have done many crude, evil and horrific things, but he couldn't because of your peculiar connection. So, he had to settle for something that was..bearable to you, but also astounding.

He came across this opportunity by pure chance. He knew what you got up to behind closed doors, you were a needy thing, but he didn't really think twice about it. He kept the knowledge of it quiet, however, just in case he ever needed to utilise it for fun.

It didn't interest him, initially. He enjoyed inflicting pain, mentally and physically, so the fact that you would so often touch yourself to induce pleasure wasn't particularly within his territory of fixations. He had other things that kept him occupied.

However, hearing your laboured breathing and quiet little moans had piqued his interest on this particular day. He had no reason for that, other than the simple fact that he wanted to spy on you. It was an urge that came by on a whim; it meant nothing, it is nothing, but Art often acted spontaneously on how he felt in the moment.

Mortal flesh did so often have its urges.

And a light bulb certainly lit up within his mind - this was the perfect way to humiliate you.

He had watched the way you gnawed at your t-shirt to keep quiet, pretty pert tits on display as you brought yourself closer and closer to completion. Art had grinned wickedly at the scene, hands fisting and shaking in excitement at the thought of never letting you live this down.

But, upon watching further, witnessing the way your head lolled back pleasurably, back arching and legs splayed wide in pure need, he couldn't deny the barely restrained desire to storm in and tease you until you were wracked with sobs.

Art had frowned in puzzlement at that feeling - it was incredibly rare for him - but his smile soon returned, shrugging as he accepted his feelings. If anything, this would only serve to embarrass you even more, he thought.

And now, dark eyes trained on your rapidly warming face, Art was enraptured by the amount of emotion that seemed to demonstrate itself. Your expressions changed quickly, and the details were minuscule, but he could see you entering a vicious cycle of bewilderment, embarrassment, anger and self consciousness.

It was as though your brain didn't know whether to lash out or guard itself. It was entertaining.

The silence hung heavily. Arts position remained the same, leaned casually against the doorframe, and yours remained as rigid and tense as ever. Your mind felt muddled. With a slow breath, your expression fell flat. Even still, you couldn't look him in the eye, and instead glared heavily at his chest.

"Stop it.", you began with a quiet, indignant scowl, chastising him. Your eyebrows drew together, so incredibly uncertain. His eyes bored holes into you and it was making you squirm. You were too stubborn to turn away.

Even still, you'd admit defeat temporarily. You didn't have the energy to battle him right now. With a huff, you turned on your heel and made your way to the bed, exasperatedly throwing your arms up into the air.

"Fine, stay there and stare all night for all I care; I'm tired." But you did care, didn't you? It gnawed at you.

Barely making it to the bed, you stopped abruptly at the sound of fingers snapping at you once, twice, seeking your attention. With a roll of your eyes, you slowly turned to look at him, expression thunderous. "Art, I'm not in the mood for this, and-- is that my phone?"

You barely breathed the question in masked panic, eyes wide once more as your phone dangled teasingly from his fingertips, wide grin stretching impossibly further.

The clown shrugged softly as though to say 'maybe', shoulders beginning to move rapidly, rising and falling in laughter as he held a hand to his mouth in faux astonishment at whatever was showing on your phone.

He feigned a look of bashfulness, fanning his face for a moment, eyes fluttering, before pointing and laughing at you some more. Your face twitched in it's attempt to remain calm and neutral, but Art could see right through you.

Covering his eyes obscenely at whatever was on the screen, but still very clearly peeking through the gaps in his fingers, Art swiftly turned the phone around so you could have a look.

That's when your mouth went dry and heat began to pinken your face even more. On the screen displayed the porn you were looking at earlier. You must've forgotten to close the tab, leaving the video running.

The volume had been turned up far too loud, the sounds of slurping and moaning vibrating through your skull deafeningly. A woman on screen had her hair gripped hard in a fistful, the man above her sliding his thick length between her lips. The sounds were filthy, and so so loud. You gripped the sides of your face loosely in devastation.

This time, you stormed up to him furiously, lunging and making a grab for your phone. "Stop it!", you repeated, shrieking this time.

You missed the phone entirely as he lifted it higher. You seethed, teeth clenched in frustration as the sounds continued, except now they had increased exponentially. From the way the screen turned down at you, you could see the man lifting the woman's thighs over his shoulders before he--

You shook your head furiously, shame blooming deep within your chest as you roughly slapped a hand against his chest for leverage, trodding onto his boots on your tiptoes to try and make another grab for your phone.

The attempt was futile, art was so tall and his arms were so long that you could never reach it. Your body was pressed up against his own, stretching high to make even minor progress in retrieving your phone. You could feel your anger boiling, scowling as you reared an arm back and aimed a punch for his sternum.

Everything happened incredibly fast after that. Before you could make contact, your forearm was gripped hard, your body was spun and your arm was wrenched behind your back.

You yelped, back pressed firmly to his front. You jerked side to side rapidly, releasing a cry of frustration in your attempt to get out of his iron grip, but to no avail.

"Let me go right now!" You attempted to sound demanding and aggressive, but it came out whiny, your voice shaking. You could feel the clowns body vibrating with laughter behind you, hand so tight around your arm you couldn't move at all.

On any other day, when you and Art would undoubtedly get into situations like this due to his pestering, you had a far better chance of escaping because you were often angry.

But today, you felt..more vulnerable than anything. You felt so puny, so small and human and fragile. It was a dirty trick on his part, and it prevented your usual unnatural strength from bursting forth.

Well, even with that strength, you don't think you could truly win against Art anyway.

Tossing back and forth regardless, you huffed and cursed at him repeatedly, knees slightly bent from the way he held you tightly and put pressure on you.

"You're a fucking asshole!", you seethed, practically feeling the mirth roll off of him in waves at your predicament.

A strong hand wrapped it's way around your delicate jaw, holding firmly but not painfully. Your head was pushed upwards almost playfully, fingertips tickling the underside of your face.

You met your own scowling expression in the body length mirror that decorated your wardrobe doors. It was as long as the doors and just as wide, giving you a clear view of Arts smirking face hovering above you.

You took in your dishevelled complexion, hair a wild mess, face lightly perspiring and your long pyjama t shirt barely reaching just above your knee.

You were hunched slightly due to being immobilised, and the hand that cradled your jaw looked absolutely massive. It was big enough to crush your skull if he wanted to, big enough to easily smother your mouth and nose without actively trying to.

Your scowl had lessened considerably at this point, that vulnerable expression returning once more. From this view, you hadn't realised just how tall he was compared to you. He was lithe, but wearing that Santa costume made him fill out a little, appear wider.

On a normal day his size would swallow your stature whole, casting a shadow over you, but in that costume?

He looked huge.

The stark realisation of this, paired with the absurdly intimate way he had your back flush to his chest and his calloused hand wrapped around your jaw with a salacious smirk, forcing you to stare at him in the mirror - you couldn't help but flush.

You found that you couldn't look away, your head attempting to move only to have his grip tighten, his grin sharpening. He loomed above you like an evil blight, eyes dark and calculating.

The sounds of the video continued in the background, a particularly loud cry having drawn you out of your thoughts, and it caused you to flutter your eyes to the floor and away from his charcoal irises.

You couldn't deny the heat that began to flourish within you.

It only increased tenfold at the feeling of a firm hand slowly gliding it's way from your jaw, descending directly to your waist, then further to your hip, squeezing.

Your eyes widened, head snapping back up at the mirror in bewilderment. You were met with the sight of his rough hand caressing you, smiling all the while.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You spat rapidly in disbelief, words shaken and sounding far weaker than you would've liked.

He had never done this to you before. Art liked to cause pain, not..

Not this. Not any semblance of pleasure, of intimacy. Your lips opened in a quiet gasp, body tingling as the heat of his hand drew circles along your hipbone before delving lower.

You jerked in his grasp, flushing heavily at the sight of his hand gliding lower and lower until his fingers played with the hem of your t shirt.

"D-dont you dare!", you squeezed your thighs together, body squirming against him with struggle. He had long since released your numb arm, and instead opted for wrapping a long arm around your waist, your head resting against his chest as his daring hand gripped the fabric of your t shirt and teasingly went to lift it, only to stop, awaiting your reaction.

His shoulders began to move with glee, chest vibrating. Your reactions were priceless as you squirmed and attempted to back away from his hand, only to back further into his body.

This infuriated you, your flushed complexion displaying panic and bashfulness.

Those mischievous fingers danced along your thigh, lifting the fabric once again, higher this time, before dropping it. His expression held one of mock surprise, lips downturned neutrally and eyes wide, eyebrows lifted.

"Don't-- don't do that! I mean it!", you whined miserably, heat encompassing your body. It caused him to pause, eyes snapping from your almost exposed thighs to your pleading gaze.

That sharp, predatory grin returned. The heat of his hand squeezed your thigh and slipped under the fabric, tickling the edge of your underwear, fingers playing with the intricate, laced detail.

Your breath shuddered, eyes wide, and you unconsciously moved a hand to grip at his wrist. Whether to push him away or pull him in, you didn't know anymore; you felt overwhelmed, and the way your chest rose and fell rapidly portrayed that.

Art snickered, unwrapping himself from your body and taking a step back, his boots thumping. With a playful roll of his eyes, he held his hands up in mock surrender, as though to reassure you that it was all a harmless joke, and attempted to smile softly, innocently. It made him appear all the more sinister.

You spun around on your heel, taking a step back yourself as you scrutinised his display of surrender. It was uncharacteristic. Despite that, Art shook his hands exasperatedly in the air, sighing as though to say 'it was a joke, don't you believe me?'

You shook your head slowly, lost for words. You couldn't speak, throat dry and mind racing. You wanted to run away.

Art rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, before rolling them back to you dramatically, grin plastered on his face. At your retreat, he experimentally took a step forward, rather comical if not for the situation, and chuckled at your jittery self.

You furrowed your brows, not falling victim to this act anymore. You were going to kick his ass tomorrow, but for now you needed to retreat into the safety of your blanket, tail between your legs. "Get out.", you pointed towards the door sternly.

Arts eyes followed your finger to the door, before blinking over to you once more. His gaze swept over your form, head tilting in thought. He began to smirk.

Before you could react, Art leapt forward three steps, making you yelp and scramble backwards, narrowly missing falling over the edge of your bed as you backed your way towards the wall.

The clown snickered again, standing up tall and no longer doing that comical hunched appearance when he lunged at you. Now, he stood to his full height, back straight and stature big, before his boots thudded along your floor as he slowly advanced in a predatory fashion.

"I swear to God if you come near me--", you pressed yourself against the wall, watching his looming figure get taller and taller.

Your neck craned upwards, stare defiant as he hovered above. Heavy hands suddenly planted themselves violently either side of your head, crowding you in.

You flinched, blinking rapidly at the way he leaned down to become eye level with you. Your cheeks were pink again, eyes darting across his face for an answer to his weird behavior. What the hell was going on?

He was alluring, you thought, and it made thoughts race in your mind. Was he going to suddenly hurt you? Was he truly just playing? Was he actively flirting with you in his sick type of way? You had never fell this silent in front of him before. You needed to gain equal ground against this asshole.

"That's enough. What, are you interested in me now?", you scoffed, daring to lean forward into his space, face so close to his you could feel his silent breath; it was a front, you felt jittery even now, but you wouldn't allow him to mess with you any longer.

Art grinned, not at all reacting to your faux bout of confidence. He shrugged half-heartedly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. It left you dumbstruck. What he did next made heat spread so unbelievably throughout your body.

You were so flustered your head felt heavy, and it only increased tenfold as your wrist was gripped in his big hand, fingers limp and relaxed, before he brought the digits you had touched yourself with to his lips and slid them in slow.

You shuddered, inhaling sharply at this display of intimacy. His grip was slack on your wrist, seeming to omit to the fact that you could escape if you really wanted to.

But you didn't want to. The thought didn't even cross your mind, and his eyes narrowed in a knowing sense of smugness at that.

Arousal swelled in your lower belly, pooling between your thighs as Arts tongue danced between the seam of your fingers, the ticklish feeling sending tingles through your nerves.

Art peered down at you, mouth full of your fingers, his grin turning nasty as he bit them lightly. Despite the clear threat that he could rip them out of the socket, your eyes remained lidded, pupils blown wide and hand lax as you let him caress you with his tongue and teeth. Crowded so close together against the wall, he could hear your heart beat thumping.

Dropping your wrist from his grip, Art reached down, bending at the knees to hook two hands below your thighs. You cried out as you were lifted high, legs resting in his grip.

He did this with ease, as though you were weightless. Sitting down on the bed, he adjusted you so you could sit on his lap, facing away from him. You could see yourselves in the mirror.

Art hooked his legs between your knees and spread them open. You wiggled against his hold, embarrassed at your exposure. Your black, lacy underwear was displayed, t shirt bunching up at your hips. You couldn't bring yourself to snap at him to stop fucking with you because..

Well, you were eager, far more eager than you thought. Had you always harboured this feeling towards the clown?

You were crimson faced, lips quivering as you tried to make your expression as neutral as possible; He had you on his lap like he was actually Santa, and you were the one telling him what you wanted for Christmas.

The thought had you lowering your head in bashfulness. No innocent Santa would have you spread and bared like this one.

The expression Art made in the mirror was one of mock surprise, eyebrows high and mouth forming like a circle. Before you could even ponder about it, a large hand was brought down to your inner thigh, fingers inching their way further in, caressing the sensitive area before cupping your clothed sex.

You held your breath, staring stubbornly back at him in the mirror. His hand was warm, and you couldn't help but shudder at the feel of his hand trailing upwards slowly, dancing over your clitoris briefly, then your mound, and up to the waistband of your underwear.

His fingers dipped below the waistband, gauging your reaction, but you refused to give one. Cocking an eyebrow in curiosity, you felt his hand descend, lower and lower, fingers gliding over your silken lips before delicately resting over your hole.

You flushed darkly, gritting your teeth as Art made an even more astounded expression, shaking his head slowly as though to admonish you for the mess between your legs. His fingertips rubbed circles in the lubrication oozing out of you, dipping in slightly but never far enough.

A small sound escaped your throat, barely audible, but loud enough for him. A slow, smug smirk stretched his face wide, and you could only huff defiantly. "I-- That's not because of you! I was like this before you rudely interrupted, remember?" You pouted.

Art rolled his eyes, nodding his head in quick succession with a look of mock belief at your words. He knew you were lying and so did you. Then, with a sly grin, two fingers glided upwards towards your slippery clit.

You gasped that time, quiet but still embarrassingly deafening to yourself, gripping the fabric of his forearm tightly.

A tingling sensation flooded your system, your body shifting and legs widening. He continued to massage the area, direct and blissful. You bit your lip, unwilling to let him see how much you enjoyed this.

Art chuckled, shaking his head at you with a nasty grin, eyebrows low and cynical. His dark eyes swirled chaotically, full of challenge and amusement and something else.

Hand descending further into your soaked underwear, two fingers dipped into your slit, thoroughly lubricating his calloused fingers.

Art paused, winking at you in the mirror. You attempted to glare back at him in the reflection, but you lacked the effort, and instead your eyebrows were drawn together softly, lips parting as two fingers slid into you to the knuckles, delving deep and curling sinfully against your greedy walls.

"Oh!", you moaned, hips lifting instinctively. Art began to thrust his fingers into you deep and hard, listening to the lewd squelching and how it seemed to fluster you terribly.

The feeling was intense; you hadn't been properly touched in so long, so to feel his thick, rough fingers curling rhythmically within your hot core, it made your nerve endings sing and your hips buck.

You gripped his arm hard, gasping, body fully resting against his own, head lolled back against his shoulder. Arts shoulders shook with laughter, terribly amused by the sight of you falling apart, but he wanted more from you. He wanted to break you, he wanted to make an unintelligible mess of you.

You were so prideful, you'd never live this down.

A fist gripped your hair roughly, tangling the locks before his fingers began to pummel into you expeditiously. It was too much, too fast, and you couldn't help but kick your legs uselessly, crying out.

"Ah, ahh-- Stop it, too much--", you whined, panting as the sounds of your wetness became loud, thighs drenched. You could see in the mirror the way his hand moved ferociously, molding the fabric of your underwear.

Your pleas made him speed up, thrusting so hard and so fast you wailed, thrashing upon his lap and dampening the fabric of his costume.

This was what you wanted, you thought heatedly. You wanted someone to render you immobile, shatter your mind. The view of his sinister smirk boring holes into you was alluring, head forced backwards with the grip in your hair. It made heat prickle along your spine.

Your hips began to move with his fingers, desperately seeking more, any semblance of pride vanishing as you chased your high. Your constant grinding made you feel the thick, long length pressing up against your ass, and you couldn't help but moan wantonly, pushing yourself into it with need.

His hand was drenched in your fluids, and it made him snicker. If this was you now, imagine you later when he forced you to take his cock.

Suddenly, your underwear was torn off of you, exposing the image of his large hand going in and out, curling, and thrusting deeply. The visual was arousing, your eyes half mast and dilated.

His palm lifted suddenly and jerked back down with a quick, firm slap. You jolted, wincing at the sting it caused, but before you had a chance to return back to contentedness, it struck again.

Those sinful digits eased their way out of you, smoothing up the length of your puffy labia, cupping it soothingly. You sighed, panting lightly, body relaxed and pliant.

His hand was hot and it made you feel content.

This time, it was sharper, and you gasped, scrambling to sit up but being forced to remain where you were as an iron grip wrapped it's way around your midsection.

Again, that firm hand slapped your sensitive folds, and you whined miserably at the pain and pleasure it caused.

Your lips were beginning to darken red from his assault, and yet you were still undeniably wet from his ministrations.

Your legs began quivering from the overstimulation, and you drew them together, trapping his hand. He seemed to let you, tilting his head with a quirk of his lips.

"S-stop tormenting me. Can't take it, not today. Please, just..", you paused, gnawing at your lip; you didn't want to admit to him what you really needed.

Art blinked rapidly, almost innocently down at you. He held a cupped hand to his ear, his other hand waving for you to continue, as though to usher you to speak the words he knows you're going to struggle to admit.

You pouted petulantly, eyes sparkling with unshed tears from frustration and the light stinging of your folds. Your peak had been building, only to be abruptly halted.

"No," you groaned weakly, "don't make me say it, you asshole." Your words lacked any real ire, and instead sounded exhausted. You were so pent up, so desperate at this point. As soon as the offence left your lips, two fingers began circling around your clit, refusing to touch directly. Art all but smiled at you patiently, face splitting with glee.

You sighed softly at the soothing pleasure, head lolling back against his shoulder. It felt so good, and you tried to buck your hips to make his fingers slip over your clit, but to no avail.

This caused you to release a frustrated whimper, feebly bucking your hips again, but this time Art stopped his stroking altogether, fingers hovering above the area you needed them most.

"No, I-I'm sorry!", you rushed out insincerely, desperate for his touch. You could feel tears dancing along your lash line, threatening to spill pathetically.

"Don't stop. I.. I need this so badly. Please.", you relented, biting your lip nervously, eyes fluttering to the floor in shame. You felt that familiar vibration; he was laughing at you.

Even still, the clown did deliberate. On one hand, he could continue tormenting you. That would be fun, and it was the initial plan, but even he couldn't deny his mortal desires. He had a strong threshold for such matters; he wasn't often interested enough.

If anything, he never paid enough attention to whether it was a man or a woman that he was maiming. That only goes to prove how disinterested he was in the whole affair of carnality.

This situation was unique, however. He was bound to a human he had once killed, who had just as miraculously as him managed to rise from the dead, and was stuck with you for ever. And, you are a woman. He couldn't damage you terribly, and he couldn't kill you. What better way to make you submit to him than by fucking your prideful, spiteful, hot-headed little self into the bed?

You were so easy to aggravate, spitting venomous insults and screeching in anger at him. That was all well and good, but he wanted to see the look on your face when he pummelled you dumb.

If death was out of the question, then immobilising you with his own body would have to do.

Gripping your waist tightly, Art maneuvered your body with ease, spinning you in his lap until both your thighs sat either side of him. A hand held your lower back firmly against his body, standing up halfway to tug down the bottoms of his Santa costume. They fell to his knees, and he promptly sat back down, grinning.

You hovered over his thick length, flushing red in anticipation. Hands finding leverage upon his shoulders, you let your wet lips rest against the tip, shivering as you did.

He felt big. You hadn't really managed to look at it, but from the feeling you knew he was going to split you open.

He seemed to be barely touching you, grinning cheekily as he awaited your next move. His cooperation made you uneasy, you wondered what he had planned.

The thought disappeared swiftly as you bared your hips down onto him, letting the tip nudge past your swollen lips, sinking in an inch or two.

You inhaled sharply, feeling the beginning of his girth and pausing in your descent. "I-I haven't done this in a while and you feel--mmm-," you bit your lip, sinking down a further inch, your insides pulsating and stinging.

You squeezed him tightly, walls rippling and attempting to mold to his shape. You gasped again, lips parting in surprise as you lowered slowly, delicately, his size stretching you.

You gripped his shoulders, fabric bunching up in your hands. Your thighs were shaking from the effort it took to descend patiently. Even with how wet you were, his hot length dragged against your insides, another inch being enveloped in your tight heat.

"Nng, its--so big", you breathed shakily, eyes glistening again. Art observed your pained expression in awe, smirking and winking at your compliment.

Two hands held your hips tightly, fingers digging in to the delicate flesh. You sighed delightedly at the contact, not at all preparing yourself for the sinister spark in the clowns eyes, before he slammed your hips down into his forcefully, tearing through you and settling within you to the hilt.

You cried out woefully, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as a pained sob was wrought from you. He could feel you shaking against him, panting against his ear, and couldn't help but chuckle nastily at your pain.

"W-wait, I need to adjust--", you began softly, voice quivering, but was given no time as Art lifted you up to the tip then dropped you back down. Your soft ass slapped against his lap, a horrible pain mixing with pleasure inside of you.

"It hurts! You're too big--!", you whined pitifully, tears dripping from your eyelashes. You gripped around his neck hard, body contorting in pain, shallow breaths hitting his ear.

Art knew this. You were so tight he had to grit his teeth, but he revelled in the concoction of pleasure and pain that wracked your body. You were too weak to fight him, trying to lift yourself off of him only to collapse back down, crying out as he filled you again. He could feel your tears soaking into his costume, and it made his cock fill with blood.

You were so full, the stinging sensation unbearable, and as he lifted you again, dragging your sodden hole off of him, he thrust up into you, letting your hips drop as he met you halfway and slid in.

A surprised moan was torn from your lips, a boiling heat enveloping your body as pleasure tingled and spread throughout your nerves. Art enjoyed your pitiful, pained cries, but he knew that the pain began to melt away as your breathing went from shallow, pained pants to breathy exhales.

The stinging became a dull sensation in the background, your insides igniting blissfully as those strong hands lifted you up once more, sliding all the way out before filling you up rhythmically.

"Mmm, Oh-", you moaned breathily, lips permanently parted. You no longer contorted your body awkwardly and instead began to melt against him, curling about his form needily.

Your hips began to take control, moving up and down his rock hard length, eyes closed against his shoulder as he emptied you and filled you over and over, thrusting up to meet your downward motions hard, filling you deep.

"Yes--Oh--", you couldn't stop the noises tumbling out. He wasn't even doing much, merely meeting your thrusts, but he was so big and long and thick and mouthwatering-

"Need more", you whined weakly, nuzzling your face against his neck, the fur of his Santa costume tickling your nose. "Please.", you added softly, thighs shaking so badly you didn't have the energy to lift yourself up fully.

Instead, you lifted your hips half heartedly, attempting to at least try, feeling that over whelming pleasure every time he thrusted upwards into you.

Each downward pull made you needy, and each thrust had you seeing stars. You could feel the grin on his face beside your cheek, body moving with silent chuckles. You were so responsive, feeling those big hands trail from your hips and down to your soft globes, pulling the cheeks apart.

You could feel your hole opening, feel his rigid length sinking in even deeper. You realised that he could probably see himself driving into you from the mirror reflection, your sopping core on full display as it sucked him in greedily.

You peered over your shoulder curiously, lidded eyes honing in on the mirror. The erotic visual had you writhing in his grasp, gnawing at your lip as he stared right back at you, lifting a hand to wiggle his fingers at you.

It was weirdly humiliating, but before you could turn away to nuzzle back into his neck and hide, his hand was brought down sharply in a loud slap upon one of your round cheeks.

You gasped, lips parting as your gaze remained frozen on his slowly retreating hand, waiting with bated breath, before it bared down upon your jiggling flesh again, and again, and again.

Your body jerked each time, a gasp escaping upon each impact, but your eyes couldn't leave the sight behind you, infinitely aroused at how displayed you were, at how massive he looked below you.

Art soothed the red handprints on your cheek with a gentle rub, looking at you in the mirror with mock concern, lips pouting out at you as though you were the cutest little thing.

You couldn't handle the embarrassment any longer, and turned back around to wrap your arms around his neck, thighs giving out below you. Two hands returned to your ass again, before gliding up into you faster this time, one thrust after another, drawing longer moans out of you.

The increase in pace made you writhe upon his lap, mewling in delight. You let yourself be manhandled, swiftly reaching down to grip two hands at the bottom of your t shirt and rip it over your head.

Your breasts bounced free, nipples teased against his body with each thrust, igniting a white hot sensation directly to your clitoris. You moaned a lot deeper this time, mouth below his ear, gasping and mumbling pleas.

Art reached a fist into your locks and wrenched your head back, hearing you wince and watching the sultry way you bit your lip at his rough actions.

You finally made eye contact with him, face to face, your complexion a dark pink. You put up no fight against his hold, even as he wrapped his fist tighter and pulled your head back hard. Your neck was bared, and you watched those charcoal eyes drop smoulderingly to your jiggling breasts.

His teeth attached themselves to your neck, biting and caressing the column of your throat, before finding an appropriate area and sinking his teeth in hard.

You cried out noisily, the sound pleasurable but stunted by pain, sounding more like a yelp. The harder he bit, the faster he fucked you, and you were soon delirious on the pain and pleasure, feeling his teeth latch on harder and harder until warm liquid oozed from the puncture of your skin.

Tears dripped from your eyes, cascading down your cheeks as you hiccupped and sobbed, your neck pulsating painfully. You didn't fight him, so caught up in the way he split you open.

The demonic clown paused, drawing back from your bruised and swollen neck, eyes flickering from the blood trickling down to your collar bone, and all the way up to your sparkling eyes, tears streaking your cheeks.

You winced, hair still wrenched back, moaning weakly at the pain, your breathing turning shallow again.

A hand cradled your jaw, thumb wiping a stray tear, and you couldn't help but nuzzle into the warm palm, comforting and big. It wasn't often he got to see your tears. The sight made him want to make you cry more, spill those fat droplets from your eyes.

Art tilted his head a fraction, inquisitive at your display of affection. You seemed to latch onto him, needing to be touched, gripping at him and melting against him. It was a far cry from your usual self.

His fingers moved down to the puncture wounds on your neck, pressing onto the tender flesh and making more tears spring from your eyes. It felt bruised and the skin was beginning to rise.

Blood dripped down your neck, and he used two fingers to swipe a clean line up your neck, coating his fingertips in the red substance.

Your eyes honed in on his crimson fingers, alight with need. Art tilted his head the other way, deciphering, and burned his gaze through your intimate display as you gripped at his hand and brought his fingers to your lips.

You suckled the tips, cleaning the crimson off of him, before taking his fingers into the back of your mouth, lathering them slowly.

Your own fingers dipped into the wound, wetting the digits red, before you hesitantly brought them towards his lips. His thrusting slowed, eyebrows lifting minimally, a shard of surprise running through him at your carnality. Your blood was alluring enough to halt his ministrations.

Finally, that dangerous mouth opened, slowly enveloping your smaller digits, tongue curling around them sinfully.

Your stare was unwavering, blinking from his mouth to his eyes before settling on those wretched depths. They swallowed you whole, scrutinizing your own visage. His smiling had long since ceased, a stern neutrality overcoming him even as you drew your fingers back and wrapped your arms around his neck to press your bloodied lips onto his.

The urge overcame you, tongues battling against one another messily. The remnants of your blood mixed between your lips, a soft moan of delight escaping you.

You never thought you'd be kissing this maniac. It sent heat coursing through you, borderline delirious from the feel of being so wrapped up in a being that was so dangerous.

Your passion resumed, hips lifting enough to feel the drag of his dick in your tight heat, before gliding back down with a light slap of your ass against his lap.

You were so wet it began to lather your inner thighs, dripping down your legs and coating his balls.

Your desire began to reignite, no longer a simmering heat and instead increasing to a boiling wave that overcame you. You grinded your hips, breaking your lips apart to gasp at his depth.

Art became watchful of your eager display, letting you pleasure yourself with his body. You leaned back, arms around his neck and extended straight so that you still had some leverage, and moaned wantonly as your position changed and his cock began to stimulate that lovable spot deep within you.

"Oh fuck--mmm--", your head lolled back, tits bouncing rhythmically as you increased your pace. You could barely hold your moans in now, overwhelmed by the pleasure of his length hitting you just right.

Art recognized the increase in your pitch and the way your body moved desperately upon his, and grinned. He wiggled his eyebrows playfully, gripping handfuls of your jiggling ass and beginning to meet your movements with his own, fucking up into you hard.

"Yes, right there, oh my god-", your legs were no longer folded below you, resting back on your knees. You had swiftly moved them, sitting fully into his lap now with your legs extended either side of his waist. This added even more depth to his movements. You could no longer grind your body against his, simply taking whatever he gave you.

"It's so deep, oh-" you began to quiver, needing so much more,  but all he could do was smirk down at you amicably, as calm as ever, watching you fall apart as each thrust directly pummelled into that spot.

You felt like ripping your hair out in frustration, body squirming upon his own in distress. Each thrust was like a shot of an addictive drug, filing you up and making you feel so high, but you needed that unrepressed carnality that you craved.

Shaking your head with a pinched expression of dismay, you leaned forward to wrap your arms fully around his neck once again, head resting on his shoulder as you whimpered.

His rigid length bruised against your cervix, hands on your hips and holding you down just to get that inch deeper. You were shaking, exhaling little 'ohh's into his neck, eyes squeezed shut.

"Don't care anymore; Need it harder", you whined pathetically, warming his neck with your hot breath; you were starting to crack. "Please fuck me. Need you so bad. Making me feel so fucking good-Oh--"

Your waist was gripped in a bruising force, lifting your body up and down like a pliant doll, fucking you vigorously. Your sweet admittance sent a thrill through his body, so he supposed out of the kindness of his heart, he could cease his teasing. For now.

Art gave you a lascivious smirk, eyes twinkling mysteriously. With a slight shrug and a nod, he seemed to silently agree with himself that it was time to get serious.

The world around you blurred as you were thrown onto the bed, hips forced into position. Your body bared itself on hands and knees and you tentatively peered upwards towards the mirror, fists clenching into the quilt in anticipation.

You watched the large, looming clown settle behind you, swallowing your body whole. With a playful wave at your watchful gaze, Art thrust forward and buried himself within you.

Your breath escaped your lungs in a silent gasp, body lurching forward from the force as he held you in place and began fucking you deep and fast.

He didn't tease you this time. Everything that had happened previously had been leading up to this moment, and it was mind shattering.

Repetitive 'uh's and 'ohh's sprung from you at each thrust, his cock splitting you open well and good just like you've craved for so long. He felt massive in this position, your velvety insides hot and tighter.

Gliding out until the tip, he'd push back in smoothly, coated in your arousal. It drove you wild, the lewd smacking of skin and wet squelching that increased more and more as he drove in faster, harder.

Your knuckles were white from how hard you gripped the bedding, unintelligible praises falling from your lips at the way he made you feel.

" 'm so full, oh my god-", you cried almost lovingly at the sublime feeling of him tearing through your snug heat, near enough bruising your cervix.

With a cynical pout down at you, mockingly awed by your kind praises of his ample size, Art reached forward to grab a fistful of your hair, wrenching your body backwards so your back bowed enticingly. It made your ass look rounder, made it jiggle and ripple more against his unrelenting thrusts. It hypnotized him, his cock rock hard.

Your upper body was suspended by the hand in your hair, and you could now clearly see how ravaged you looked in the mirror. The looming Santa behind you dwarfed your figure, all jagged smile and wiggling eyebrows at your pleasured expression.

Your tits bounced prettily in the reflection, witnessing the way his normally piercing gaze faltered and darted down to the erotic scene, before darting back up to your face. His smirk appeared lascivious at being caught, and he gave a comical, light shrug.

For some reason, an infernal fire roared within you at that; This creature was evidently attracted to your feminine form. It made you moan louder, reaching forward to play with your round globes teasingly, jiggling them with your incessant fondling, biting your lip at him in the mirror.

You were becoming feral for him.

Art cocked an eyebrow, head tilted in rampant interest at your display. That same jagged smile returned, and almost as a reward, he leaned forward and circled two calloused fingers over your sensitive clit.

Your reaction was instantaneous, legs shaking and body jerking at the intense pleasure. It made you nearly collapse forward if not for the grip in your hair, his cock still relentlessly spearing you.

"Fuck, just like that, ohh--", you cried blissfully, shuddering. Arts expression appeared sternly concentrated on your exclamations and the way your body sucked him in greedily. His thunderous expression was terrifying, but it only served to increase the heat within you tenfold, your body pliant and melting into his ministrations.

He shattered your equanimity, your mind turning to mush and only thinking of his thick hands and his fat cock-

Your thighs were violently quivering, struggling to not collapse. Your moans increased in pitch, high and breathless and weak.

" 'M so close, your cock feels so fucking good and I'm going to cum, im--ohh!"

Your body was roughly dropped, a violent hand forcing you into the bed. Your ass remained high while your cheek laid itself upon the blankets, face contorting in mindless, pleasurable relief as those murderous hands gripped at your hips and began fucking into you so expeditiously you wailed.

His heavy balls slapped your clit with each filling thrust, teasing the bundle of nerves to the point your knees began to quake, on the brink of collapse.

"Fuck, fuck!", you shrieked in repetitive succession, breathing erratically as his thick, long, veiny cock fucked you so good that you just burst-

Your knees did collapse this time, but firm hands kept your hips situated perfectly to receive his godly pistoning. With a high, keening noise you didn't know you could ever make, so desperate and whorish, your pussy contracted and gushed.

Your thighs were soaked and dripping, your bedding ruined. You could feel the way his grip tightened bruisingly on your hips at the feeling of your insides pulsating steadily, milking him, demanding he fill you up like you craved.

Your self consciousness and any semblance of pride were shattered into a million pieces at the mind numbing euphoria you felt. It enveloped your entire body in a blanket and made you feel like you were floating. Your insides fluttered intensely making your breathing erratic and short.

Your face was forced even further into the bed as you reached two arms back, planting a hand on either side of your round cheeks.

With a flushed, fucked out visage staring back at Art from the way your face was turned on its side, you spread your enticing cheeks apart, moaning. "Need you to fucking fill me, need you to fuck me so full please please-"

Art couldn't deny the intense arousal that shot through his body and engorged his cock unnaturally further. Your dainty fingers spread your cheeks so far apart he could see the way your hole split around his length, the muscles parting forcefully at his intrusion. Your virgin, tight puckered hole caught his attention the most, and he moved a thumb to rub the area tenderly, a promise that he'd make you scream yourself hoarse the day he managed to fit his cock into that narrow passage.

You'd cry, he'd make sure of it, and the thought and the visual in front of him was enough to have him seizing your hips so strongly that they would bruise, fucking you brutally and hearing your sobs of pain and pleasure, before his hips stuttered once, twice against your cervix and a flood of hot, ropey squirts painted your insides.

He filled you so deeply it made your body think it needed to pee, if only to expel the amount of cum within you. It was unnatural, but he wasn't a mortal. If anything, the absurd amount made you melt dreamily into the bed, thoroughly fucked and bred and satiated for the time being.

You felt the clown retrieve himself, sliding out with a lewd squelch. Your hole gaped and quivered, his cum oozing out of you messily and coating your thighs. You moaned pleasantly at the feeling of two fingers scooping out the sloppy mess, coating his fingers with it before pushing them into your mouth. You accepted the gift, a noise of delight escaping you.

It made you want to suck his cock and have him fill your mouth until you choked. The thought was arousing, clitoris pulsating lightly as you reached down and rubbed it in lazy circles.

His body moved behind you, two hands gripping your ass cheeks before a hot, long tongue nudged your fingers aside and lapped at your clit. You moaned wantonly, pushing your hips back into his ministrations, feeling that heat invade your abdomen again, signalling another orgasm.

"Oh God, fuck, your tongue feels so-feels so--", you cried out as two fingers sunk into you to the knuckles, pushing the sloppy cum back into your hole dirtily, all the while his tongue lapped at and lathered your clitoris, licking broad, rough stripes up the bundle of nerves until you were a whining mess.

"Fuck, fuuuck, don't know if I want your tongue or your cock more, mmm-"

Art chuckled into your sodden pussy, eyebrows low and sinister. You were shameless, your pleasure ridden brain void of anything else other than the need to be fucked dumb.

A high pitched cry of pleasure tore him out of his condescending thoughts about you, his mouth drenched in your splattering orgasm. His fingers curled within you, brutally fondling that area that had you outright weeping into the pillows.

Little 'too much!'s and 'stop!'s were cried out to him desperately, your body convulsing as though you were possessed. Wiping his mouth, Art sat back and admired his work.

You were panting, pleading in a high pitched, pathetic tone. Your body was overwhelmed, tired and bruised, and Art sat back on his knees and thought for a moment, hand to his chin.

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling in brief contemplation, and then he shrugged, situating himself behind you again.

You whimpered at the feeling of him forcing his sturdy cock into your puffy walls once more. The sound you made was strangled and weak, drool dripping down your chin shamelessly, body losing function of itself. You were crying openly, brought deeper and deeper into a submissive sort of headspace.

He grinned sharply, his cock hardening at the sight of your pathetic state. He bet he could make your body lose all inhibition and piss itself. You'd be so ashamed, and he'd make you lick the liquid off of his cock; a good girl for Santa.

He began to fuck you, patting your messy hair adoringly. You whimpered and wailed, pleading for more, pleading for less. But he found that he wasn't finished with you just yet. You wanted this, didn't you? You told him so yourself.

With a comforting stroke of your hair, Art smiled mockingly down at you, pouting his lips out at your cuteness. He couldn't go back on his word; he was going to fuck you until you couldn't walk.

Thrusting into you, your mouth opened in unbridled pleasure.

The comforting stroke of your hair turned sinister, gripping a fistful up to the root.

Your pretty, wet eyes stared back at him over your shoulder, lips quivering.

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Epilogue

You had fallen unconscious. He had drawn orgasm after orgasm out of you to the point that you begged him to stop, crying so much that you couldn't breathe. Art adored your tears, awed and fascinated by them. The only reprieve you were given was your exhausted, slumped body falling soundly asleep. It was exquisitely blissful, but too much to bear.

You awoke with a weak groan, pushing yourself up to a seated position. You were naked in the blankets, but Art seemed to have the decency to clean you up slightly, your inner thighs dry and not at all the mess that they were a few hours prior. That was oddly sweet of him. And unexpected.

You wrapped a dressing gown around your body, wincing as you stood on shaky legs. Your insides felt battered and bruised, your hips dark with fingerprints. Making your way downstairs, your eyes were sleepy and lidded as you switched the kettle on to make yourself a coffee.

You had a moment of peace to yourself, or so you thought.

In came strolling that demonic clown, looking as fresh as a daisy and wide awake as he bounced preppily over to you, plonking his cup down beside yours in a silent request that he, too, wanted something hot to drink. Preferably hot chocolate.

He no longer adorned his Santa costume, instead dressed as he usually was in that monochromatic suit, face paint as immaculate as ever. He smiled down at you dazzlingly, or as brightly as a demonic entity could, patting your head like you were a golden retriever before grabbing the hot chocolate that you had barely stirred with your spoon and taking a seat at the table, newspaper in hand.

You eyed him warily, exhausted, and felt a small amount of embarrassment flourish within you at how normal he was acting and how drained you felt and looked and..

Not to mention the memories of last night either. You promptly locked them away in a box and threw away the key for now.

You reached up to grab a box of cereal from the shelf and sighed. You couldn't be bothered to eat right now, even though your stomach was grumbling noisily.

What you didn't expect was for a white hand to flash in your peripheral, grabbing it for you, before gripping your hips and spinning you to face him.

The pressure on your hips made you visibly wince, and Arts expression turned to one of shock, mouth an 'o' and eyebrows high. You frowned weakly at him before pushing his hands off of you with barely any effort behind it.

"Hurts." You pouted up at him, shaking your head lightly. You felt so weak, you really needed to replenish yourself and eat something.

Art cooed down at you, pinching your cheek lightly. You scowled now and moved away from him, thoroughly drained. He could sense that your usual fire had been doused at the moment, and held a finger up to represent a lightbulb moment.

Before you could contemplate it, you were picked up bridally and sped into the living room, making you squeal and giggle breathily. Art dumped you onto the settee, turning the TV on and putting on a horror film.

He jumped beside you, blanket covering both yours and his legs, and you couldn't help but smile dreamily at him.

He fucked you good and hard last night, and now wants to watch one of your favourite horror movies? What a gentleman. Art deadpanned at your bizarre expression, clicking his fingers in front of your eyes to snap you out of it. You only smiled wider, eyes crinkling.

"You know, you're sooo sweet when you want to be."

Art comically guffawed at your admittance, shaking his head swiftly to deny such a thing, lifting a finger to the side of his head and twirling it in a clockwise motion to signify you were crazy for ever thinking something like that.

The overly dramatic, rare expression had you giggling again, soft and sweet. Art rolled his eyes at you, waving you off as though to say 'yeah, okay, don't get used to it'.

Seeing this as a prime opportunity to tease, you were swiftly silenced as a slice of cake was shoved into your mouth. You don't know..where he got that, but he was a clown, after all, and it tasted edible.

Sighing contentedly, you chewed the sweet treat slowly, watching as the scene on TV displayed a possessed woman in the shower, scorching water melting her skin as she carved her mouth apart with glass.

You loved this movie, and Art seemed intrigued, cackling silently beside you. Wrapped up in the blanket, you leaned against him comfortably, and he seemed unperturbed by it, eyes honed in on the screen.

You don't know why he was being so gentle with you. Art never did things unless he wanted to, and that was enough of an answer for you; he simply wanted to act this way right now. Even still, it made you feel warm, and you supposed living eternally together wouldn't be so bad.

Well, that was until you fell asleep, awoken by the chill of having your thighs spread apart and cake smeared all over your puffy, abused folds.

"Art! What the hell are you doing?! I told you I'm in pain--"

Art chuckled evilly, leaning down to lick a gentle stripe up your icing covered lips, savouring the sweet taste.

Your breath hitched, but you still held your hands against his shoulders, faced etched with nervousness. "P-please don't. Can't..can't handle it right now."

Art tilted his head a fraction, staring up at you in awe. You had retracted to that submissive headspace again, and he found that he relished it. Repressing a cheeky grin, Art held his hands up placatingly, schooling his expression to one of neutrality, or rather barely masked amusement, and used his finger to draw an imaginary X over his heart.

"You mean you won't..be too much? Really? I'm having a hard time trusting you, you're literally grinning at me right now..." You huffed, expression incredibly wary.

Art covered his mouth with the back of his hand, teeth clenched as he grinned and laughed. Even still, he coughed once, face falling flat to prove he was.. moderately serious about being gentle with you.

In truth, he just wanted to eat your juicy pussy and hear you moan his name again. He bet he could get you to ask him nicely to fuck you.

For added effect, Art splayed his wide hands on your thighs and tickled the skin with either thumb, rubbing soothing circles into the flesh. Again, you had that dopey, dreamy expression on your face, and he began to think he really did damage your mind last night.

"Fine, just..be gentle, okay? I'm in no mood to quarrel today."

Art shrugged lightly. He kind of felt the same. It was refreshing hearing your soft voice instead of your screeching one of anger, or seeing your fluttering eyes at him rather than your stone cold ones.

Who knew that fucking you silly would make you so tame, so pliant. It was rather funny. Guess it proves that all you needed was a bit of dick to calm you down.

And Art was feeling surprisingly generous today. With a quirk of his lips, he settled between your thighs and placed them onto his shoulders.

Tongue darting out to lick up from your hole to your clitoris, he lathered the nub gently, lowering his lips to suckle it.

You gasped softly, widening your legs for him and biting your lip. The pleasure was instant, a heat boiling in your abdomen and fluttering down to your toes.

He was good at playing the part of devoted and gentle, and gripped at your hand delicately, lacing his fingers with your own in an intimate display. He watched you blush a pretty pink, mouth parting in awe at his uncharacteristic tenderness.

As you stared into his smouldering eyes, he smothered your clit beautifully, making you moan and buck your hips up into him.

He knew the moment your moans turned deep and sultry as he prodded a finger at your entrance, that you'd soon be backtracing your words and pleading with pouty lips that he fuck you gently.

There was an undeniable connection between you both; you were bound, after all, and even he wasn't immune to the effects of it. He'd still aggravate you, and absolutely wreak havoc on your wanting body, but he also rather enjoyed the peaceful tenderness of these moments, save for your breathy moans and the sounds of someone dying on the TV.

It made him feel peculiarly content. With a smirk into your sodden folds, Art thrust a finger into you deeply, standing between borderline pleasurable and 'too much', as you had said.

You had yet to berate him, he noted.

Within a few minutes, you were a mess down there, soaked and sticky with cake. He remained true to his word, not at all being rough, and instead holding you delicately in warm hands as he sucked and licked at your glistening folds.

"Art, it's the best part of the movie- Ah--"

He rolled his eyes at you, though did spare a single glance at the screen when he heard the sound of a chainsaw.

In no time, you were panting and reaching your peak, soft cry breathed into the air as his fingers curled and pumped into you, tongue massaging your clit. You gushed down his wrist, quivering.

Art smiled innocently up at your flustered self, imitating dabbing his mouth clean with a napkin. He jumped up and sprung beside you once more, pulling you into his sturdy lap and leaning back comfortably.

His eyes didn't leave the screen, fully focused.

You shifted, wiggling to get comfortable and felt his hard dick pressing against you. You bit your lip and glanced at him guiltily - you had just proclaimed that you were in pain today, and now you were having thoughts of him fucking you?

You settled back against him, flushed and buzzing with arousal. The film was almost over. Art grinned behind you, eyes ablaze with mischief. He knew what you wanted, but like you said, he was missing the best part of the movie.

Maybe if you're lucky, he'll fuck you later. But for now, you'd sit tiredly spent against his chest, chuckling at the brutal massacres on screen. More cake miraculously appeared, which always helped. It was pressed against your lips forcefully and you were more than happy to take it, humming in delight.

"Who'd have thought that you killing me all those years ago would evolve into this.", you smirked at him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. "You're actually really cute. No idea how I never noticed it before." Your girlish expression lit up your face, eyes sparkling.

Art looked exasperated at your comment and shrugged. He smiled cheekily, pointing at himself as if to bashfully say "who, me?"

Your giggles rung throughout your home, his silent laughter making your body move. You felt a sense of contentment - a partner in crime to maim people with and to fuck you dumb.

Your eyes swirled black, corrupt and tainted, and promptly shut sleepily.

What could be better than this?

i need him so bad. this is pure smut. i made an epilogue to add fluffy things but it turned into smut 💀

also this isn't related to sporadic contingency at all, its just a standalone fic x

[clockwayswrites]

Danny in Metropolis, ch4 p2

masterpost dying of this miiiiiiiiigraine. Like a knife to my braaaaaaaaaaain and weird cold spos. the cold spots are new. ._. please no editing or con crit

Lois was the first parent home; it was her turn to pick Jon up from school. As soon as Kon heard the door unlock he sent her a text to not call up, Danny was asleep. He was a little surprised to see her poke her head in the door about ten minutes later.

“Poor thing doesn't look so good,” she said with a worried little frown as she took in the sight.

Danny had basically passed out mid rant. The whole conversation (which Kon had started hoping for this result) Danny had slipped further and further down onto Kon's bed and the conveniently place pile of pillows until he'd fallen asleep with his head on Kon's leg.

Kon had frozen and not moved and inch since.

“He didn’t eat much lunch, and I just thought that at least here someone would keep an eye on him,” Kon explained in a soft mumble.

“Of course honey, you know he’s welcome any time,” Lois said, voice equally soft as she padded quietly over to the bed. She pressed the back of her hand against Danny’s forehead.

Kon wondered if knowing how to do that just came with being a parent.

“Well no fever. He feels cold if anything,” Lois said. She moved over to the massive beanbag in the corner of Kon’s room and grabbed the blanket off it. (Wonder Girl themed, because Cassie was like that.) She tucked it around Danny. “Do you know what’s wrong? I can look through out medicine, but with with my boys the way you are three, we don’t have a great stock. I can ask Clark to stop on the way home if we need anything.”

“No,” Kon admitted with a little frown. “But maybe something for nausea I guess?”

“I’ll see what we have,” Lois said before she leaned over and pressed a kiss to Kon’s forehead like she did Jon’s all the time. “And I’ll have Clark grab at least some ginger ale on the way home.”

“Thanks, Lois,” Kon said gratefully. “Oh, and for dinner—”

“I’ll see what I can do with the chickpeas I’ve noticed appearing in the pantry and make plenty of beans,” Lois said.

“You’re the best.”

“I know,” Lois said with a smug little smile before she swept quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.

It might have been Lois leaving or the click of the latch or maybe even the warmth of the blanket, Kon didn’t know, but Danny shifted. Like a seal on the pier, Danny pushed himself further up the bed and landed a very pointy elbow right in Kon’s stomach. While Kon tried not to be jabbed again, Danny curled up until he was tucked around Kon with his head on Kon’s chest. Kon just gave in to Danny’s efforts and flopped backwards onto his bed with a beat red blush.

After a very long debate with himself about what was appropriate, Kon gave in to wrapping an arm around Danny and pulling the blanket tight again. He was just helping Danny stay warm, that was all.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Eldritch Horror! Konig with a Witch! Reader who accidentally summoned him and now has no idea how to get rid of the large shadow monster desperate to mate.

You needed a familiar. A bat, or, maybe, a cute black cat that would drag your ingredients from the top shelve and deliver mail. You needed some company, something cute and weak - and you prepared for the ritual, cut a bit of your arm to get the blood out, put some of the tea leaves in the cauldron, waiting for the creature summoned. The book you used for the incantation was just a tad bit weird and old, but almost all witch books are - it's not like you have a lot of options here, unfortunately.

The cauldron went into smoke, then - into boiling. You thought it was a good sign, the magic slowly activating as your powers drained to call for someone cute, someone magical and obedient, someone... There is a tentacle poking out of the cauldron. An octopus familiar, huh...you weren't too disappointed, but it wasn't ideal, either. Maybe if could turn the tentacles in a pretty pink color, or if you could exchange it for something fluffy and adorable or- It's a man. Well, sort off. It's a man, and it sets off your alarms - literally and figuratively. Human-like familiars are almost all demons, and demons as familiar is bad news. You aren't even remotely strong enough to contain someone as strong as him, and with the energy that envelops him as he slowly moves out o the cauldron, too small for his tall, muscular and dangerously beautiful body, you know you're fucked. It's safe to say that you're familiar now. With Konig not being bond by a summoning ritual - he is far too strong for that - you think that the only reason he didn't kill you, a dumb and arrogant witch trying to contain him - is only because he latched on you as his personal breeder. He mated you, the first thing he did after pushing you onto your bed and taking you raw, like the helpless thing you are, and then softly spoke some words in a dead, eldritch language that you don't understand. Then he mated you again and again until you felt nothing but throbbing between your legs and pumps of pleasure as the eggs slowly filled your womb. He brought you some food after - you think it's his way of caring for his mate. He also called you a dumb, arrogant and weak thing, and then something in his language again, that was probably yet another insult.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSPIDER LILIES IN THE CRIBㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Peter Parker x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Your baby dies, and you forget how to breathe—Peter forgets how to let go.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Angst, hurt/comfort, child loss, trauma bonding, obsessive love.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You were glowing.

Peter would always say it—even now, even when your skin is pale and your hair is a tangled mess on the pillow. Even when your eyes are hollow and your lips haven't smiled in months. He still whispers it into the silence of your bedroom, "You were glowing."

Because you were.

When you told him you were pregnant, Peter cried. Not the way someone cries when they’re scared or hurt. No, this was the kind of crying that made him fall to his knees and laugh at the same time. Because you were everything to him. You were his entire world, and now you were giving him another one.

He had a name picked out. Drew Parker if it was a girl. Ben if it was a boy.

He talked to your stomach every night, told your baby stories about his Uncle Ben, about Aunt May, about what kind of kid he hoped they'd be. Brave. Kind. A little weird. Like their mom.

But the baby didn’t cry.

The room was too quiet. You were too quiet. Peter was screaming. The doctors were yelling. You passed out from the blood loss, and he swore he saw his whole world bleed out of you.

They handed him a lifeless body in a soft blue blanket. And Peter—God—Peter held it. Held it like it was still warm. He whispered, "It's okay, Daddy's here." But the baby was gone. Already gone.

You didn’t come back after that.

You woke up, but you weren’t there. Not really. You didn’t talk. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t scream or cry or scream at the sky like he did. You just laid there. Breathing. Barely.

Peter brought flowers. You didn’t touch them. He cooked. You didn’t eat. He tried jokes. Nothing. He started reading to you, every night, old comics, poetry, the news. He even read science journals, anything to fill the silence.

You weren’t you anymore.

And Peter? Peter was losing his mind.

His obsession didn't start now.

It started when he was fifteen. With guilt. With responsibility.

But you changed it. You were the only thing in this cruel, broken city that made him feel like a human being. Not just a masked hero or a walking graveyard of everyone he’d failed.

So when he lost the baby, and you slipped away, Peter couldn't handle it.

He started isolating himself. Skipping patrols. Snapping at MJ. Ignoring the Avengers' calls. He couldn’t leave you. What if you needed him and he wasn’t there? What if you tried to hurt yourself? What if you forgot how much he loved you?

He moved his workstation into the bedroom. Monitors, web fluid, everything. He started sleeping on the floor, by your side. Never leaving. His beard grew in. His eyes were bloodshot. But he never left.

"You're not alone," he’d whisper. "I'm here, baby. Always."

Weeks passed. Then months.

One night, he kissed your hand and swore it twitched. He latched onto that like a man dying of thirst.

He bought you a new robe. He brushed your hair while talking to you like you were answering back. He framed the baby’s ultrasound. He needed you to see it every day. “You remember, don’t you?” he'd say softly. “You were so excited. You cried. You said we were gonna be a family.”

Peter was spiraling. Not in an angry, aggressive way. He never raised his voice. He just sank. Into you. Into the bed. Into the memory of your laughter.

He started hallucinating your voice. Sometimes he’d smile and reply like you had said something. Sometimes he’d look at you and say “Don't worry, sweetheart, I’ll bring them back. I’ll fix it.”

You never answered.

He hasn’t buried the baby yet.

The body’s still in the freezer at the lab. He keeps saying he’s working on something—on maybe—on what if. No one knows. Not even MJ.

And every night, he lays beside you and whispers,

“I’ll fix this. I swear. Just stay. Just hold on.”

You didn’t look at him.

Not when he read to you.

Not when he brushed your hair.

Not when he whispered “I love you” like a broken prayer.

But your chest still rose and fell. And that was enough.

To Peter, that meant you were still fighting. Somewhere inside all the silence, you were still you. Just…buried under all that pain. Buried under that cold, still hospital room where he held your baby and begged a corpse to breathe.

It’s been five months now. The sunlight hits your cheek some mornings, and Peter holds his breath like that’ll be the day. The day you turn and blink and say his name.

You don’t.

But he’s learned how to live in the pause.

Peter talks to the baby now.

Not just in your stomach. Not in dreams. But in reality—to the small, still body cryogenically sealed in his lab.

He talks to him like he's right there, asking:

"Would you have had my eyes or hers?"

"Would you have hated math like her?"

"Would you have made her laugh the way I used to?"

He visits the lab every night, logs in with trembling hands, stares at the frost-coated glass, and says, “I’m going to fix this.”

Because somewhere in his fractured mind, Peter believes he can undo death.

Not for the world.

Not for Gwen.

Just for you.

Just so you’ll come back to him. Just so you'll open your eyes and be you again.

He stopped being Spider-Man.

New York doesn't notice at first.

Miles fills in. The other heroes think he's taking a break. They think he's grieving. They think Peter’s just being human.

They don’t know he hasn’t left the apartment in a week.

They don’t know he cut a hole in the wall to make the webbing dispenser reach your bed, just in case you ever tried to leave without him.

They don’t know he keeps your toothbrush clean and your favorite mug full, even though you never drink.

You’re not dead. But you’re not alive either.

And Peter lives in that in-between space like it’s sacred ground. Like maybe, if he’s good enough, if he just loves you enough, he can drag you back from the edge.

The day you scream is the day everything breaks.

It happens out of nowhere.

Peter’s reading again—some old sci-fi book you used to like—and you scream. A raw, primal, bone-deep sound.

He drops the book. Crawls to you. He’s sobbing, holding your face in his hands.

“Baby, look at me—look at me—it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here—”

You slap him.

Hard.

And then you start crying. Not pretty tears. Not cinematic grief. Ugly crying. Hurt crying. Animal crying. And Peter holds you through it like your screams aren’t ripping out pieces of his soul.

You hit him again. You curse. You say you hate him. You ask why the baby died. You ask why you’re still here.

Peter never answers.

He just kisses your forehead and whispers:

“Because I need you.”

“Because I’m not letting you go.”

“Because I love you too much to bury you too.”

After your scream, he refuses to leave your side for a second. Even when you sleep, he holds your hand. Even when you eat, he cuts the food. He’s afraid if he blinks too long, you’ll disappear again.

He has violent outbursts now. Not at you. Never. But at mirrors. At walls. At the world. He hates anyone who smiles. He resents anyone who has a child. He avoids hospitals like they’re graves.

He talks to you like you’re made of glass. “Don’t push yourself.” “You don’t have to smile.” “You’re enough. Just breathe for me, that’s all.” But there’s a terrifying edge under the softness. Like if anyone but him tried to help, he’d snap their neck.

Peter isn’t just your husband anymore. He’s your caretaker. Your doctor. Your priest. Your prison guard. Your everything. Because he needs to be. Because if he’s not, he has no purpose.

“You died too,” you whisper once, voice wrecked from months of silence.

Peter holds you tighter. Shakes his head.

“No,” he says softly, pulling your hand to his heart.

“I started dying. But I can’t. Not until you live again.”

And in the dark of the lab, the baby’s body is still frozen.

Waiting.

Because Peter hasn’t given up.

He never will.

You woke up to the smell of rain and the whisper of your name.

Your body still felt like a tomb, but something was different.

There was light. Warmth. Movement.

And Peter—hovering by the door—his face pale, eyes wild, fingers twitching like he’d just stolen fire from the gods.

You sat up, weak and shaking.

“Peter?”

Your voice was rough, unused.

But he dropped to his knees like it was the first sound of life he’d heard in centuries.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you with tear-glossed eyes and a strange smile. A haunted, delirious, hope-drunk smile.

And then he whispered:

“He’s back.”

Peter lost his mind.

Obsession wasn’t new to him—it’s why he became Spider-Man. Why he kept fighting. Why he’s buried half his friends and still refused to stop.

But this time, he didn’t fight for the world.

He fought for one breath. One heartbeat. One cry.

One baby boy.

He begged help from Reed Richards, blackmailed Norman Osborn, broke into Dr. Strange’s sanctum, and bled for it. Quite literally.

He used forbidden biotech and unstable quantum timelines.

He didn’t even know if it would work. But he did it anyway.

Because you weren’t you anymore. And if the baby came back, maybe you'd come back too.

And then—

A cry.

A gasp.

A small, choking, impossible breath.

Not a clone. Not a dream.

Your son.

Alive.

Peter didn’t name him yet.

He wanted you to do that.

Because he needed you to believe it was real.

You don’t speak. Don’t sob.

You just tremble.

Peter stands behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, lips against your temple, whispering:

“He’s real.”

“You can feel him, right?”

“You’re not dreaming, baby, you’re not dreaming…”

And when your fingers graze your son’s tiny chest and feel it rise—

Something inside you shatters and mends all at once.

You start crying so hard, you can’t breathe. You scream into Peter’s shoulder, clutching the baby like the world could take him again if you let go.

And Peter cries too. Because he won.

He brought you back.

He brought both of you back.

You get better.

You sleep curled around your son like a dragon guarding treasure. Peter sleeps beside you both, hand resting on your waist like an anchor.

The laughter is slow to return. Quiet. Nervous. But it does. You laugh when Peter changes a diaper wrong. You laugh when the baby pees on his face. Peter cry when you laugh.

You name him Benjamin May Parker. Ben, for Uncle Ben. May, for the woman who raised Peter. When you say it out loud, Peter drops to his knees. It’s the first time in years he feels whole.

Therapy. Gentle sunlight. Soft music. Walks in the park. Peter carries the baby, but never stops watching you like you might vanish again.

You touch him again. Kiss him. Pull him into bed one night and say, “I’m sorry I left you.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t. I never let you.”

Peter now—still unhinged, but softer.

He’s scary good at being a father. Changes every diaper. Takes every night shift. Wears the baby in a sling while web-slinging (you yell at him for this constantly).

The apartment is a fortress. Baby monitors, reinforced windows, Spider-Tech crib that could survive a nuke. He once webbed a stranger for getting too close to the stroller.

He worships you. Kisses your stretch marks. Talks to your body like it’s sacred. Whispers, “You made him. You brought him here. You’re everything.”

He terrified of losing you again. Still checks if you’re breathing when you sleep. Still wakes up in cold sweats. Still holds your wedding ring like it’s a talisman.

And sometimes, when the baby sleeps…

You both sit on the floor, back against the wall, holding each other.

No masks. No saving the world. Just the three of you.

Survivors.

You look at him—your brilliant, broken, beautiful husband—and whisper:

“You saved me.”

He shakes his head, eyes wet.

“No,” he says, kissing your fingers, voice cracking—

“You saved me.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆